Weird

All my life, people have been calling me weird, so many that I have at last accepted that they are probably right.
“Weird” is a statistical label; people are weird if they’re out there on the extreme of some behavioural dimension … be free, be yourself, indeed rejoice in your weirdness. And if you don’t think that you’re weird, please don’t judge anyone else.

All my life, people have been calling me weird, so many that I have at last accepted that they are probably right.

“Weird” is a statistical label; people are weird if they’re out there on the extreme of some behavioural dimension, or more likely dimensions. A dictionary definition is:

“Very strange and unusual, unexpected, or not natural.”

That definition doesn’t capture the usually pejorative way in which “weird” is used as a label. Also, it’s not simply being extreme on any behavioural measure. You can be very clever, or very extravert, and I doubt anyone would call you weird. No, weirdness implies a special sort of unusualness. It’s thinking or behaving in some unusual way that catches the attention of most people and makes them want to pass some slightly negative judgement. Looking odd, having an unusual hobby that is considered esoteric (or “boring”, as though the activities of most people have some inherent meaning that makes them worthwhile), saying inappropriate things, or repeatedly breaking social norms, are all likely to get you called a weirdo.

Being weird obviously troubles many individuals because the internet is awash with worried weird people looking for reassurance. My favourite question is “Is being weird normal?” – to which the answer was, surprisingly, “yes”. There is apparently, no normal. But while no one might be exactly average, I don’t think that really lets me off the weird hook.

There are even apparently benefits to being weird. Weird people tend to be more creative. Many scientists and mathematicians are distinctly odd. This finding shouldn’t be too surprising because people who achieve great things must be very unusual in some way.

I think my weirdness is a consequence of my neurodivergence, one of those increasingly fashionable terms that I think does have some value.

Neurodivergent people think and behave in atypical ways, and go against social norms, because our brains are different, either through genetics or upbringing or most likely both.

I have previously listed all my psychological symptoms, and here is a recap: depression, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, phobias, general phonological disorder, and autistic spectrum disorder (not to mention noise sensitivity, task avoidance disorder and completion anxiety and completeness obsession). Is it likely I have all of these independently? Of course not. They all stem from an underlying brain that’s significantly different from normal; my brain is sufficiently different from others to warrant a label.

You can be neurodivergent without it being a problem for anyone. It’s only difficult if it causes you pain or distress: in my case the depression, anxiety, and occasionally OCD do. I hesitate about adding “or if it causes other people distress” because people are sometimes upset by the behaviour of another when it is questionable whether they should be. A psychopath might not suffer but can hurt others, but is the naked rambler recalling doing anyone any harm?
There are even some people who seem weird to me. There is a chap who wanders around town with no shoes on, whatever the weather. But doubtless he has his reasons, and it’s none of my business. The world would be a happier place if people stopped telling others what to do so much.

So to all you self-confessed weirdos and freaks out there, with the caveat about being or causing psychological or physical pain: be free, be yourself, indeed rejoice in your weirdness. And if you don’t think that you’re weird, please don’t judge anyone else.

Sometimes I almost feel sorry for all you neurotypicals out there.

Please visit my website at www.trevorharley.com for much more. I am Emeritus Professor of Psychology at the University of Dundee, contact me on trevor.harley@mac.com.

How to help recovery from depression

How can we help ourselves to recover from depression? There are several things we can do.

I have been overwhelmed by responses to my previous post on the experience of being anxious and depressed.
The comments fell into four broad categories:

1. Commiseration and agreement. The most common response, and I thank you all. It helps to feel supported and that others feel similarly.
2. I should turn to God. I realise this works for some people, but it is not for me. I am not though going to talk people out of it, or try to persuade them that they are wrong (even if I think they are). If you have faith, and it helps you, I am pleased for you.
3. You should choose to make yourself feel better. This sort of comment is fortunately rare, but the underlying belief is unfortunately quite common in society more widely, and misunderstands the nature of mental illness. It essentially says we are choosing to be ill; to use my favourite analogy, would you say that to someone with cancer? Pull yourself together and snap out of it? It is the sort of belief that stigmatises depression because it’s essentially saying that we are weak and can’t be bothered to help ourselves. It’s all our own fault. It just makes me annoyed.
4. It’s depressing. What did you do to feel better?

I’m going to focus on the final point. I’ve covered many of these things before but I’m putting them altogether here. This list covers how, with much help, I’ve made myself better from the nightmare described in my previous post. Note I say better, not well. Rather like an alcoholic, I fear I always be on the edge.

1. Seek help. There is no need to suffer alone. Call your GP or other health professional, call NHS Direct, or, if you are desperate and thinking about suicide, call the Samaritans. They are wonderful.
2. Remember that there should be no stigma attached to mental illness. You might meet the odd person who tells you to pull your trousers up, or that you brought it on yourself, or whatever, but they are wrong (see above). It’s not easy, but just ignore them.
3. Take medication. You’d take medication for flu, or TB, or cancer, wouldn’t you? Yes, many psychoactive drugs have side effects. You might have to experiment, and go back to your GP and psychiatrist, but remember it takes time for some medication takes time to work and for side-effects to settle down. A bit of constipation is a price worth paying for not feeling suicidal, but remember the extent and severity of side-effects varies from person to person. Consult your GP or psychiatrist if you are worried.
4. All things must pass. You will feel better, eventually. When I am bad I always remind myself of this fact.
5. Exercise as much as possible. I know it’s what everyone says (“when I feel down I just go out for a run”, a doctor once helpfully told me), and when you’re really depressed it’s one of the last things you’d rather do, but it does help. Even a brief walk will make a difference.
6. Go outside as much as possible. Nature makes you feel better.
7. Get as much natural light as possible in the morning. If necessary get a SAD light box.
8. Eat well. Eat for the brain, heart, and against inflammation. See below for some links
9. Stick to a routine you have worked out in advance. Routine might be a bit dull, but it helps mental health, minimises stress, and helps you sleep properly. Talking of which …
10. Get enough sleep at all costs, but not too much. Find a schedule that works for you. I swear by an afternoon nap.
11. Avoid toxic people like the plague. Do not make the mistake I have made many times of believing that you can reason with them or get them to change. Do not perseverate about what they say and just do not engage with them.
12. Consider getting a dog. A dog increases your lifespan by over a year. You have to go outside and exercise ever day. And it releases so much oxytocin. Beau (above) has been a lifesaver for me, perhaps literally.

I should say that of course I don’t have any magic bullet for depression, or any form of mental illness. If I did I’d be well myself, and probably rich. These things have helped me though. I apologise if it all sounds a bit trite and simple.

About me

I am Emeritus Professor of Psychology at the University of Dundee. There is much more information on mental health and other things on my website, http://www.trevorharley.com. Please pass details of this blog on to anyone who might find it useful. There is no need for anyone to suffer in silence. If you are depressed or anxious contact your GP, or NHS 111, or a psychology or medical practitioner, or call Samaritans or Samaritans USA.

Links to healthy eating sites

The Mediterranean diet for general good health and increased longevity.

The DASH diet for hypertension.

The MIND diet for a healthy brain and reducing risk of Alzheimer’s.

What does it feel like to be depressed?

What to does it actually feel like to be severely depressed? To be very anxious? To suffer from OCD?

People who don’t suffer from mental illness often think that being depressed is a bit like being sad, that being anxious is like having a touch of nerves before an exam, and that having a compulsion is simply an urge to do something. They’re all much worse.

Depression is very different from feeling a bit down, or having a moment of passing sadness. It’s an extraordinary “pain in the mind”. Imagine feeling sad, but much, much sadder than you’ve ever felt before. Imagine all the lights being turned off in your head. Imagine your mind turning black; black is the colour of depression. You’re living in a monochrome world where all feelings except pain have been turned right down. Imagine a dark ball at the centre of your being that is so cold it hurts. It’s like an icy knife in your soul; it’s worse than any physical pain. You just want to go to bed and cry, to fall asleep, or even die. Death would be a relief, because death is an end to the misery. In any case, who cares: alive or dead, what’s the difference in the end? And who would miss you anyway? You hate yourself and your life. The idea of doing anything is impossible to contemplate. There’s nothing to look forward to, and nothing gives you pleasure, not even the things that in better mental states you can rely upon to excite you. Your despair is utter. Everything is hopeless; and you are sure you’re never going to get better. You feel a terrible sense of doom, foreboding, and fear, not just that you’re never going to get better, but that the universe is a threatening, mysterious, evil place. And everything is such a fight; everyday life is exhausting. You can’t concentrate long enough to be able to complete simple tasks, and in any case you forget what you were going to do nearly as soon as you form the intention to do it.

Managing to do the little things can wipe you out after you’ve used up so much energy making yourself do them. You feel exhausted all the time; deep fatigue goes with severe depression. You make mistakes in the simplest tasks. You have no motivation do to do anything anyway, and no interest in anything. You feel nothing other than total despair, and feeling amazingly, incredibly guilty about everything, as though you’re lazy, incompetent and everything wrong with the world is your fault. So you deserve to suffer so much. Everything is overwhelming, and you are paralysed. You don’t just have very low self-esteem, you are also full of self-hatred. You are the lowest of the low and completely worthless; the world would be a better place without you. If you‘re depressed for any period of time self care tends to go out of the window: what is the point of shaving? Can you really be bothered to wash your face? Who cares if the kitchen sink is filthy? You overeat and overeat convenience food, because that’s all you can be bothered to cook. You sit, finding yourself in tears, and you’re not sure why. You feel completely alone; no one can possibly understand how you feel just now. You can’t bring yourself to speak to other people anyway. And in one final little trick of the mind, time slows down to prolong the agony. Every second is torture. So you try to sleep for as much of the day as possible, and you drink wine and take pills to try to ensure that you can sleep. You feel physically ill as well, with aches and pains exaggerated to distraction. There’s a tickle and lump in your throat. You perpetually tug at your eyebrows, and occasionally pull them out so that they contain strange bald patches. And the ear-worms – those annoying tunes stuck in your head – drive you even madder. You also worry that you’re a black hole of misery, sucking in joy around you, ruining the lives of others – so it’s fortunate that you prefer to suffer in isolation. It is paradoxical that you are lonely and yet want to be alone at the same time, but depression is full of paradoxes. When you’re severely depressed you can’t do anything. You just want to sit still and let the pain wash over you. Some people kill themselves because they can’t take the pain any more; and some people are so ill they can’t even initiate the act of suicide. You have contemplated suicide many times because everyday life hurts too much, and often you really don’t care if you wake up tomorrow morning or not.

That’s what it’s like for me at its worse, but fortunately therapy and medication has helped me enormously. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that bad, but I still get occasional relapses, occasional inklings of those feelings.

I find severe anxiety more difficult to describe. It is a bit like being anxious before an exam, or giving an important presentation or wedding speech, but much more intense and persistent. It is also highly visceral; it gets to your gut. You can’t concentrate on anything, but instead worry about everything. You’re completely on autopilot.

Anxiety often goes with depression, giving a condition imaginatively known as “anxious depression”. There is also agitated depression, which is similar but with more activity – of a bad sort.

It is my misfortune to suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) as well (which is occasionally co-morbid with depression). An obsession is not just like a pre-occupation; it is all-consuming, and you can think of nothing else. A compulsion isn’t simply an urge to do something, or check that you really did lock the door; you must do it, usually many times. My OCD started when I was about 11. I would repeatedly get up in the night to check that my bus pass was in my jacket pocket, and go downstairs to check that the front door was shut. I think it was about fifty times a night, possibly more. Why didn’t anybody notice? Then when a passenger in the back seat of my uncles’ cars I would worry that passing drivers would be able to read my thoughts (even though I knew that was impossible), and might be insulted by them, so I had to apologise to them by saying “sorry” mentally – in powers of three. Occasionally I would reach 243 sub-vocalisations. I suffered greatly performing these compulsions, but the prospect of not doing them filled me with even greater pain. Performing these compulsions also releases the mental pressure somewhat, perhaps in a similar way that self-harm makes some people feel a little better. Eventually the compulsions faded away, to be placed with slightly less compulsive compulsions, such as hand-washing (but much less excessively). I still tend to do things in multiples of three (such as checking the front door is locked behind me nine times), and I am still a very obsessive person, with curious obsessions like having to have complete sets of things such as books all in the same format.
That’s what it’s like when it’s bad, but even then perhaps I have failed to capture the full horror. I am sure that for some people it is even worse.

I am Emeritus Professor of Psychology at the University of Dundee. There is much more information on mental health and other things on my website, www.trevorharley.com. Please pass details of this blog on to anyone who might find it useful. There is no need for anyone to suffer in silence. If you are depressed, anxious, or suffer from OCD, contact your GP, or NHS 111, or a psychology or medical practitioner, or call Samaritans or Samaritans USA.

Am I normal?

I have always been troubled by labels such as “normal”, and its opposite, “abnormal”, particularly when applied to mental health and personality. I am glad that it is no longer fashionable to talk about “abnormal psychology”, the preferred term being “psychopathology”. (You wouldn’t call someone with cancer “abnormal”, would you?) Normality is defined statistically, and just means the typical, or average behaviour or personality. If you’re some way from the mean on some personality trait it doesn’t mean, usually, that there is anything wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with being very introverted, and something very right about being highly creative. But we do like labelling people, and sometimes the labels take on a life of their own.

Here is a list of the disorders or syndrome with which I have been officially and unofficially diagnosed – the labels I have been given.

1. Moderate to severe depression. No arguing about this one. Yes.

2. Bipolar disorder. Yes my moods go up and down but I don’t think I have ever been manic. The moods also change quickly, even for rapid cycling. But perhaps bipolar and unipolar disorder are on a continuum, and I am just a little away from the unipolar end?

3. Anxiety disorder. Another obvious yes.

4. Phobias. I do have some mild phobias, particularly arachnophobia and trypophobia, but they’re mild. More troubling are claustrophobia and social phobia.

5. Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Definitely, particularly obsessiveness, and I should have been treated for compulsive behaviour when young. But hey, it was the early 70s, and no one knew anything then.

6. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). I made the grade for a psychiatric diagnosis, but my blood pressure is too high for Ritalin.

7. Autistic spectrum disorder (ASD) definitely. I score 40 on the AQ.

8. Developmental prosopagnosia. I have never been able to remember or recognise faces, and when I imagine them, only face-shaped blankness comes to mind, although I can remember the hair.

9. Depersonalisation and derealisation. Funny turns. Yes, occasionally.

10. General phonological deficit (GPD). Trouble processing novel speech sounds. Definitely: I have trouble learning and remembering new words, learning nonwords, learning new languages, and recognising speech, particularly against a background of other speech sounds (although my general hearing is fine).

11. Personality disorder. Borderline personality disorder. Or narcissistic personality disorder. Or obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. I disagree with this one, but perhaps I would.

12. Authority defiance disorder. Who likes to be told what to do? (From the research on authoritarianism and compliance, quite a lot of people, actually). Are we starting to get silly?

13. Task avoidance disorder. Now I fear I am guilty of pathologising normal behaviour. Who doesn’t procrastinate occasionally?

Is it likely that I would suffer from all of these things independently? That’s 13 labels for me, and let’s suppose that each condition occurs in 5% of the population, which is almost certainly an over-estimate. That means the probability of them co-occurring if they are independent is about 10 to the power of -18 – that’s extraordinarily small. I am special, but not so special as to think I’m the only person who has ever lived that has these problems. That means the conditions can’t be independent. That makes sense, because we know anxiety and depression usually go together, as do some neurodevelopmental disorders.

And so is it likely that these “peculiarities” of mine are explained by a single faulty gene? Of course not. Like our physical appearance, our brains and mental life are determined by the interaction of many genes with our upbringing. And just as some people are considered more physically attractive, and some of us less so, some people have more adaptive or happier personalities, and some of us struggle.

I like the terms (labels) neurotypical and neurodivergent for just the reason that we can talk about people as being very different from the population norm without implying that there is necessarily anything wrong with them. Neurodivergence is a cluster of semi-related characteristics, including primarily what used to be known as Asperger’s syndrome.

The labels clarify my thinking a bit, but do the conditions marked by the labels map on to clearly identifiable brain states? Although there are genetic markers of depression, some brain abnormalities have been observed, there may be neurotransmitter differences, and some differences in fMRIs between the brains of depressed and non-depressed people, we cannot yet reliably identify a depressed person by their brain alone. And, if you are in doubt, if you had a brain scan which came back completely normal, what kind of psychiatrist would say that you are wrong about your suicidal ideation, that you can’t really be experiencing it because your brain looks normal?

When does unusual behaviour cross over into becoming illness? Very simply, when it causes you distress. You might argue that we should also include when someone’s behaviour causes others distress, but that is a risky path to take.

Of course our mental states are related to our brain states, but our understanding of the nature of the relationship is still rudimentary, and that is part of the problem with treatment: we don’t really understand what we’re treating. We have to rely on how our symptoms are changed by some treatment, and have only a basic understanding in some cases of how (see for example the recent and misunderstood fuss about SSRIs and serotonin levels).

The brain and the mind that works in it is among most complex structures in the universe, so please be patient with your psychiatrist or psychologist if sorting things out takes time.

Withdrawal: Duloxetine discontinuation syndrome

I am not sure how long I had been taking Duloxetine. I think about it was about ten years at a daily dose of 120 mg. I thought I wasn’t getting the benefit I used to. Now I know it’s complicated, many things can change, and so on, but one hypothesis was that the antidepressant had stopped working, or was no longer as effective as it had been. Others have noted a decline in the efficacy of anti-depressants with time: antidepressant treatment tachyphylaxis is the name given to the problem. (It’s been reported with at least SSRIs and MAO anti-depressants, and doesn’t appear to affect everybody.) There’s a limit to how much you can increase the dose to overcome this tolerance, so the main method of dealing with it is switching to a different drug. With my psychiatrist I decided to move to Venlafaxine. You can’t just stop taking one and start the other; you need to stop taking the Duloxetine gradually, wait a bit, and then start Venlafaxine on a relatively low dose. We agreed on a programme of a relatively slow taper, as this method is called.

I am not sure how long I had been taking Duloxetine (Cymbalta). I think about it was about ten years at a daily dose of 120 mg.

I thought I wasn’t getting the benefit I used to. Now I know it’s complicated, many things can change, and so on, but one hypothesis was that the antidepressant had stopped working, or was no longer as effective as it had been. Others have noted a decline in the efficacy of anti-depressants with time: antidepressant treatment tachyphylaxis is the name given to the problem. (It’s been reported with at least SSRIs and MAO anti-depressants, and doesn’t appear to affect everybody.) There’s a limit to how much you can increase the dose to overcome this tolerance, so the main method of dealing with it is switching to a different drug. With my psychiatrist I decided to move to Venlafaxine. You can’t just stop taking one and start the other; you need to stop taking the Duloxetine gradually, wait a bit, and then start Venlafaxine on a relatively low dose. We agreed on a programme of a relatively slow taper, as this method is called. Things were then delayed by my being hospitalised with pneumonia. I knew that stopping anti-depressants is not something to be suddenly or lightly, and I knew that Duloxetine is widely regarded as one of the more problematic, so didn’t think it was wise to start in a period of serious ill-health.

Eventually I started, and went down from 120 mg to 90 mg for a week, and then 60 mg. Things were OK. I don’t remember any obvious symptoms, and my mood held up well. And then I went down to 30, and the withdrawal side-effects began, first when the famous brain zaps kicked in. It’s difficult to describe these to someone who hasn’t experienced them. It is as though you’re brain is sneezing, or you experience a big mental shiver – it’s most unpleasant. Sometimes you feel as though you’ve been moved against your will. I also had an upset gut, but still I didn’t feel any different, mentally: I wasn’t depressed, or at least I wasn’t noticeably more depressed. So after anger two weeks or so I went down to 15 mg. (This point is where cutting tablets up and slicing capsules open comes into play). After two weeks, maybe a bit more, or I went down to 0 mg.

My records show that withdrawal was worst after going down to a quarter of my original dose and lower for about eight to ten weeks. It was really bad: brain zaps, upset stomach, frequent migraines, extremely vivid dreams starting early in the night, a feeling that I was still dreaming when awake. Even after three months or more I didn’t feel right. My gut hadn’t returned to anywhere normal. Most noticeably after a couple of weeks at zero my mood started plummeting. Low mood, anhedonia, no energy, recurring thoughts of suicide – all of course classic symptoms of depression. It’s interesting my mood took so long to fall, and that the lowering of mood correlated with the discontinuation side-effects starting to fade. The half-life of duloxetine (the time if takes for the body to process half the dose) is about 12 hours, but it must cause longer lasting changes to the brain’s neurochemistry (or perhaps the brain itself). Looking at the research literature I don’t think these things are very well understood.

I know there was a class action started against Eli Lilly in the States about what is called duloxetine discontinuation syndrome (DCS), but it was dropped because there was no evidence that Eli Lilly knew about the possible problem before they marketed the drug. I don’t blame anyone. I started taking it on consultation with my psychiatrist and I was aware that there might be withdrawal problems, as there are with many medications. I suppose I thought it wouldn’t be that bad, having come off other anti-depressants before. Even now I think there must have been many people worse off than me.

Anxious about anxiety

Severe anxiety is just as crippling as severe depression. Depression and anxiety aren’t in opposition: they’re comorbid, with a person who suffers from one being much more likely to suffer from both.

It’s getting to be almost acceptable to be depressed. Public awareness has improved immensely over the last few years, and while people with depression still face a great deal of ignorance and discrimination, I think the corner has been turned. Every day sees some celebrity coming out as mad; even famous footballers are admitting to being depressed, even suicidal.

I can’t say the same about anxiety, particularly generalised anxiety disorder. Severe anxiety is just as crippling as severe depression. Depression and anxiety aren’t in opposition: they’re comorbid, with a person who suffers from one being much more likely to suffer from both.

And as I sit here writing I am really suffering. Anxiety is more difficult to describe than depression. Everyone is occasionally a little down, and can at least begin to imagine depression by magnifying the feeling. I don’t think there’s a healthy equivalent of anxiety. Perhaps the flutters you feel when you’re late for a train or plane or having to give an important talk or public speech. But for me anxiety and nerves are very different.

Severe anxiety is just as crippling as severe deoression. You don’t want to do anything because you can’t. You don’t want to travel. You don’t want to talk to people. You don’t want to catch a train. You don’t want to go into town. You don’t think you can give the talk you’re just supposed to be giving. You don’t want to go outside. I hate the outside. I can just about manage the garden, but the village shop? It might as well be Antartica.

The Wikipedia entry talks about excessive worry, and worry is part of the problem, but there is also a huge physical element: sweating, racing heart, breathing shallowly, and shaking. But the bit I hate most is the shrinking of consciousness, the narrowing of the mind, so that you can’t concentrate on anything. Oh, and the irritability. I am not a nice person to be around around at the best of times, but when I am anxious – avoid me.

I know there are things you should do, including mindfulness, relaxation, and deep breathing, but these activities all presuppose that you have enough focus to be able to begin to focus. There are drugs, but they make you feel sleepy and brain dead.

The academic life and mental illness

The academic life for staff and students defies common perceptions and is one of the most stressful jobs around. It contains many triggers for depression and anxiety.

My mother thought that being an academic was one of the cushiest jobs she could imagine – a couple of lectures a week and holidays for six months of the year. She thought students had it even easier having to go to those few lectures, take an exam or two a year, and spend the rest of the time travelling the world. She also thought they were out partying every night, finishing drinking at 3 a.m. and then trashing the town. I suspect she was not alone in her prejudices. How wrong these common perceptions are. I think being an academic, and being a student, is one of the worst careers for aggravating, even causing, mental illness. The job has the following triggers.

The work is open ended. How I used to envy people with 9-5 jobs. Academics and students are never finished because there is always just one more job to do, whether it’s another paper to read or write or a textbook to go through again. When I was Dean it amused me that HR had a workload model for academics of 40 hours a week. I don’t know anyone who worked less than 50, and many did much more. What is there to stop us? We don’t leave the building and down keypads just because the clock moves on to 5, or because it’s the weekend. And if you should finish one job, there’s always another to do. There’s nothing to stop us doing more. Few things are more stressful than knowing you have an uncompleted task to do, and that you could be doing it, and that you have the time to dot it.
What is work anyway? The same analysis is true of holidays as is true of the working week. I know of several academics who have booked annual leave in order to carry out research. When I go on “holiday” I read psychology articles and books, as do most people I know. When I was a student I would spend the vacation working in a factory in order to earn money as well as studying while travelling and in the evenings and weekends. Those maths worksheets seemed never ending. Christmas will find us reading and writing. For us there’s no such thing as a proper holiday.
The work contains contradictory elements. We’re expected to carry out world-leading research as well as teach to the highest standard, and you get evaluated on both. I know there is some carryover between teaching and research, but time you spend teaching is time you can’t spend doing research, and vice versa. Contradiction is stressful.
Giving a lecture or presentation or tutorial is stressful. Fear of public talking is one of the most common fears, being strong enough to count as a phobia for many people. Yet we have to do it all the time. Training is often inadequate. Some students find they’re not really prepared and although they might be taught how to organise their material and how to use Powerpoint I don’t know of anywhere that teaches them about the fear of speaking and how to overcome it. I’ve known of several students being physically sick before having to give a seminar. Speaking feeds fears.
Deadlines. The life of the teacher and student are very similar in they they’re both full of deadlines. You have to give that lecture tomorrow or hand in that essay by 4 p.m. You can’t decide you’re going to take the day off instead. You need to be really, really sick before you call in. Deadlines are often too close together or even on the same day. Deadlines are exceptionally stressful.
You have to organise your own time. One day you think you’re settling down to finish writing your 4 p.m. lecture, or finish your essay, when something happens. Your manager or supervisor wants to see you urgently (and it’s nearly always urgently). Your car won’t start. Your child or dog is unwell. There are suddenly 15 new pressing emails. Someone wants to see you and just won’t stop talking about their problem. And worse than deadlines are jobs with no deadlines because unless you’re very careful they never get done. You live from one deadline to another, one essay or lab report handed in to the next. So just when do you do that background reading, or write that important paper that could help you get promoted? When there’s no deadline and you’re tired and fed up it’s easy just to stop. And many deadlines aren’t real, anyway: do a a journal review by the end of the month? Sure, I’ll agree tot hat. Get to the 31st, and no problem, because everyone knows that if you send the review on the 1st it won’t matter, and what’s the difference between the 2nd and the 1st? When I was Dean I was always giving deadlines for jobs that I needed to follow up on, and less than half the staff would do the job before my deadline. What was I to do? Fire someone for being two days late with a document? In any case they were probably just busy with the last thing I asked them to do. The problem is that delays cascade. No-deadlines are often worse than deadlines.
There is far much more rejection than praise. Journal acceptance rates are very low and grant rejection rates are very high. I’ve known people to send off an excellent grant proposal ten times before it gets accepted, and much outstanding research never gets funded. How demoralising it that? Feedback for students is mainly a long list of things you’ve done wrong. Of course that’s good in a way because you want to learn and improve, but persistent negative feedback gets to you. After a while people develop learned helplessness. Continual negative feedback is stressful and causes depression.
It’s an exceptionally competitive environment for staff and students. Not everyone can get promoted every year. Not everyone can get a grant. The top journal can’t publish everything. Not every student can get an A every time. Perpetual competition is stressful.
Some people are stars (but you’re not). But if you don’t succeed you sure will be aware of someone who has. You have to congratulate them through gritted teeth. Although you are struggling just to manage, you will know at least one person who seems to sail though. In every field or every department or ever class there is at least one Einstein. We admire them, we have to praise them, but really they just make us feel worse. Comparison makes us feel sick.
EMAIL is evil. When I was Dean for every email I had to send I would get at least three back. It would be easy to spend all day doing nothing other than email. I am not alone: everyone I know is dreaming in a sea of email. And then there’s social media which some find compulsive. Often when lecturing you suspect every student is checking their messages or Facebook status. How demoralising is that? How do we cope when we’re striving in a sea of email that gets deeper every day? Smash up every computer or phone you see.

These triggers are more numerous than in many jobs. You might say other careers are bad too, but often they are better paid, and students aren’t paid at all – in fact they have to pay to have all this fun. And staff and students are often the sort of people who are least able to cope, having been brought up learning to expect to succeed.

I have no solutions. If you decide you’re going to take a real holiday for a month, you know that the departmental Einstein won’t, and they’ll have a stronger case for promotion than you at the end of the year. Off sick for a week and dare not to do that marking? When you come back that marking will still be there, but with another pile to join it, now with the same deadline. Oh, and whatever you do there will be two hundred emails in your inbox.

One thing we can do is face our weakness and admit we’re struggling, that we’re feeling anxious, that our agoraphobia has been triggered and we’re scared to go out, that we’re too depressed to talk, that our OCD has come back and is making us check every mark ten times (actually for me it has to be a multiple of three). To return to where I started, my mother thought mental illness, unlike physical illness, was a weakness. She was very, very wrong. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, and talking about it is better than getting so bad that all you can think about is suicide.

Is this all there is?

The holidays are over; normal life is resumed. We are heading towards Blue Monday, the third Monday in January, the alleged day of the year on which most people tend to be most miserable, and for which there is no scientific evidence at all. (I’m happy to be proved wrong.) Nevertheless there is a sense that people are ground down by the lack of sunlight at this time of year, the absence of anything to look forwards to after Christmas, with work or school to resume as normal, and perhaps left to reflect on having spent money over Christmas that they didn’t really have on things they didn’t really want. What can cheer us up?

I enjoy Christmas, but as I said in my previous post I don’t make too big a thing of it, or overdo things. Even so I am left feeling both a bit empty apart and full of dread. The rest of the year stretches ahead. Maybe I’ll go away a few times. I might enjoy a few days in the sun in summer. I might finish writing a book or two. But soon the days will start shortening again, and then it will be my birthday. Another year since the last one. And not long after that it will be Christmas again. A year nearer old age, a year nearer infirmity, a year closer to death. And so the cycle repeats.

People tell me that this is a negative, depressive way of looking at things, to which I say: this is exactly what it means to be depressed! “Normal” people often appear to think that a person who says they’re depressed won’t have any symptoms.

I realise too that I am luckier than most: I’m in relatively good health, I achieve some fulfilment in my work, and I’m not struggling to eke out a tough existence doing a biring repetitive job (which is one of the things I dread most in the world). That knowledge doesn’t help. I feel lonely and I feel alone, an alien on the sidelines watching everyone else enjoying life and finding meaning in mundane things, helping giving their children a good life, or comfort in their God.

I can’t even imagine what meaning there could be to make up for the grind of everyday life. THIS is all there is.

An interesting seeming paradox then is my Kurzweilian obsession with life extension. I don’t think there is in fact a paradox: who wants to go to a football match if you know it’s going to be abandoned because of a water-logged pitch after ten minutes? Part of my ennui is because it hardly seems worth starting anything if I’m going to be dead in forty years. (Again, please don’t tell me this is crazy messed up thinking.) I’ve got to rush to finish writing my book on consciousness and the next one on weather and psychology because bits will start falling off me in a few years. So yes please, sign me up for freezing my head, having my blood vessels cleaned by nanobots, neural implants, and uploading my intellect to cyberspace. To paraphrase Woody Allen, I don’t want to become immortal just through my work, I want to become immortal through not dying. Life extension would give my life real meaning.

Scientific progress in the quest for eternal life is one of the few things that stops me from killing myself at this time of year.

Christmas comes but once a year – thank God

I am no grinch who wants to steal your Christmas. In fact I love many aspects of it; I love the lights, the colours, a nicely decorated tree, an opportunity to drink champagne before lunch, and thinking about the turning of the seasons as the winter solstice at last arrives. But I don’t feel the joy of anticipation and the frenzy that many people, perhaps most people, apparently feel. It is one of many events, like parties and family gatherings, where I feel like an alien.

Why do people get so worked up about Christmas? Maybe I’m very lucky in having such a good life that I don’t need special days; maybe it’s because I don’t have children; maybe because I’m not so conditioned by the insane advertising that tries to force us to think the event is the most important thing ever. Or maybe it is because I’m an insane alien. Sure, it’s nice, but the reaction of nearly everyone else seems so over the top to me, particularly given that most ignore the religious aspect. (Indeed usually the more religious people are, the more restrained they are about the commercial aspects.)

It is seen as opportunity for many to “let their hair down”, and have fun, a good “blow out” for a day or two. But why just one day? Why can’t our lives be full of meaning and pleasure all year round? Why can’t it be Christmas every day?

I know of several people of whom it is said “they live for their holidays”, among which I am including Christmas. I find that sad: the remainder of their lives is so unpleasant and has so little meaning that they’d rather they didn’t happen, but instead would pass as quickly as possible until the next special day. At this time of year it is almost impossible to get into Marks and Spencer’s food hall, and that’s assuming that you can park within ten miles to get in; what are you doing the rest of the year, shoppers? Where are you? What do you do the rest of the time? And why are you such bad drivers? I am supposed to be antisocial and depressed, yet I think your situation is the sad one. One day of joy and gluttony, three hundred and sixty four of misery. At least in good years I can manage five days of joy and only three hundred and sixty of misery. (Bugger leap years.)

Is it really that “work” you have to do really so unpleasant? It is clear that many people have really unpleasant jobs. It’s manual labour and repetitive, boring jobs that would get to me. Being an academic was good; working on a checkout sounds dreadful to me. Most jobs are in between. Yet the people who do them don’t seem that unhappy; they have friends, they chat, the time appears to fly by for them, although I would hate it. I am left confused. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but I am the unhappy one who is depressed. Is there some causal relationship here that I’m missing?

Is the experience of Christmas much worse if you are very depressed? I have been alone a few times on Christmas Day and it’s not nice. There are several good sites (here is another) talking about how Christmas and depression “don’t go” together. It is hardly surprising, because there are few things more depressing when you’re depressed than happy people.

If you are crazy about Christmas, good for you. I’m not trying to demean or cirticise you; I sometimes wish I could join in more easily. I’m simply saying that there are some of us who are cut off from normal life. I wish I could, if only once a year, let my hair down, as they used to say, but probably no longer do. But a very Merry Christmas to you!

Finally, a few notes. First, I am in the process of updating my website, so there might be a few hiccups along the way. Second, a little shameless self-promotion: my novel, Fit for a King, is available from Amazon for Kindle on special offer over the festive season for £0.99 here, or $1.32 on Amazon.com here. You can buy a paperback version if you prefer. A novel about how to be sane in an insane world.

Mental illness at work

The news that people with mental health problems suffer at work will not come as a surprise to anyone with those problems. In my experience it isn’t down to malice on any one’s part, but clearly something isn’t right if so much talent and money is wasted. Remember that people with mental health problems include some of the most creative people around.

One major problem at work is that mental illness …

“Mental health sees 300,000 people leave their jobs each year”

And I was one.

I should immediately qualify this statement by making clear that I was in no way forced to leave. I was one of the lucky ones: I just didn’t feel strong enough to do that job properly any more, and I had many other things I wanted to do instead. Like writing this blog, and producing the best book ever on consciousness. I was tired and worn out and lucky enough to have alternatives. But if I had been mentally stronger I might have carried on for longer.

One major problem at work is that mental illness is often not considered to be a “real” illness or disability. I know of many people with problems (including myself) who have never been asked what reasonable adjustments could be made to their work environment, and indeed whose requests for relatively minor changes have been met with something between pained resignation and aggressive exasperation. This aspect of things could be improved by better training of managers.

But the power of institutions and employers is limited: institutions and businesses are made up out of people. Generally instititions in the UK at least now have very good rules, and often there’s not much more they can do apart from making sure that they implement those rules, and to help change the attitudes of their employees.

It’s that final bit that’s difficult. How do you change centuries of stigma and ignorance? On the bright side things have changed for the better very quickly, but there is still a long way to go.

We can learn by looking at three areas where there have been enormous strides over the last fifty years: women’s rights, LGBT issues, and race. Again, I am not saying that everything is now perfect – clearly it isn’t, and there are still massive changes in attitudes to be made. They have all though made progress because those discriminated against have formed strong movements and taken direct action. We lunatics are hardly among the strongest people in society, but perhaps we have a duty to stand up and say we are ill, we are disabled, we need help at work. You wouldn’t treat someone with cancer or in a wheelchair this way, so don’t treat me like it.

I’ve lost track of how many mental health support groups and societies there are; there are too many. We need to unite, and we also need to mobilise. It’s difficult when you’re too depressed to move, and difficult when you’re worried everyone is going to mock you, but if you have the strength, it’s time to come out and be counted, and not let yourself be pushed around. Sing if you’re proud to be mad.

	trevorharley on Things people say
	trevorharley on Things people say
	Liz on Things people say
	Pete Downes on Things people say
	trevorharley on What does it feel like to be…