wisdom from rilke

'Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.'

'Why should you want to exclude any anxiety, any grief, any melancholy from your life, since you do not know what it is that these conditions are accomplishing in you... You need to be as patient as one ill and as optimistic as one recuperating, for perhaps you are both.'

'Perhaps all dragons in our lives are really princesses just waiting to see us just once being beautiful and courageous. Perhaps everything fearful is basically helplessness that seeks our help.'

RAINER MARIA RILKE - LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET (1922)

owning our feelings

One of the biggest problems for those of us who suffer from depression is that we can never be sure which are our true feelings, and which are imposters. Sounds odd, I know, but the very nature of the condition, if it has been around for a long while (and it usually has), means that it comes stocked with a whole store cupboard full of repressed feelings and emotions.

These feelings - though very real - have been buried deep inside us, often from a very young age. As sensitive kids who were eager to please, we soon learned which of our emotions were welcome - and therefore gained approval - and which did not. The denial of ‘undesirable’ feelings - whether they be anger, sadness or fear - does not eliminate them, however. They become suppressed, only to re-emerge later in life as depression - essentially a condition resulting from the denial of the true self.

Consequently, in order to resolve our depression (when we are sufficiently recovered to do so, that is), we have to be prepared to untangle our real feelings from those imaginary ones we have taught ourselves over many years of self-deception. This game of perception vs reality is far from fun, I can assure you, but - as the worst of the suffering passes - it is often possible to gather certain clues to help us unravel the mystery.

1) Trust your instincts. The great French detective and philosopher, Jacques Clouseau, saw instinct as his greatest asset, and defined it as ‘that rare ability to know, without having to stop and reason'. It is this stopping to reason which can land us in trouble, because we start to twist and deny our true feelings. Gwyneth Lewis, perhaps a more reliable source in Sunbathing in the Rain, said: ‘learn to trust the first thought and dismiss the second… the first thought is not only more accurate but usually more humble than its brainy but tricksy successor'.

2) Think with your heart. Remember there is a reason why instinct or intuition is often referred to as a ‘gut reaction’. These are feelings you sense within your body rather than with your head. The process of mindfully tuning into your body’s sensations is not easy, but it is an invaluable way of getting a truthful read-out on how you feel. An ability to recognise your ‘heart sinking’ or your ‘stomach churning’ will tell you far more than you will learn from listening to the endless machinations of the mind. For much more on this approach, see The Mindful Way Through Depression (Williams et al.)

3) Trust your 'little voice'. Although true feelings will often be well hidden, they often have their own ‘voice’ which, alongside the bodily sensations described above, we can tune into if we pay sufficient attention. Barely audible through the din of the grown-up, rational commands of ‘should’, ‘must’ and ‘ought’, this voice is nonetheless there, and crying out to be heard. It has a persistent quality which knows the pain, suffering and insecurities of childhood, and which demands - above all else - compassion for the self, protection and kindness.

'The intellect is less strict than the spirit. The spirit, which is the final judge, does not exhaust us with arguments, it simply forces us to look.'
ALAIN, THE GODS

Of course, we can - if we wish - continue to ignore our true feelings, and consign our instinct, our bodily sensations and our ‘little voice’ to the dungeon. This is, after all, what we have generally done in the past. But we must realise that this will incur a huge cost. Indeed, it is already costing us dearly in our depression, and the price in future may be simply too much to bear.

glorious runswick

There’s a point on the Yorkshire coastal path, just a mile or so south of Staithes, at the top of a big rise, where the views are amazing and - on a sunny day - reminiscent of the North Cornish coast. Standing on Beacon Hill, next to a walker’s stile, you can direct your gaze southwards along a jagged coastline of cliffs towards Runswick Bay; look north past The Nab towards beautiful but slightly ramshackle Staithes, nestling in its cleft; or survey the eastern horizon across a vast expanse of North Sea, in the direction of Denmark.

It was a lovely lady who went by the charming name of Flora Lightfoot who first told me about Runswick and Staithes. Together with Sandsend, Whitby and the paths which interlink them, they form one of my favourite of all stretches of coastline. In her 50s with a twinkling eye, orange hair, boundless energy and an infectious sense of humour, Flora helped me understand IT programs (hardly the easiest of tasks), and I recently heard from an ex-colleague that she has since passed away (although I fervently hope he’s got his facts wrong). For my part, I never arrive at that coastline without thinking of Flora, and would love to tell her how many happy hours I have spent walking its paths.

I have visited in hot sunshine, icy midwinter, mist, hail and mud. But, whatever the conditions, there is always a bacon buttie to be had at the Wit’s End Café in Sandsend before starting out, and the best of all pints of Black Sheep at Runswick’s Royal Hotel at the finish. Here, you’ll find a cosy fire in winter or, if the weather is fine, you might be lucky enough to bag one of the seats in the tiny beer garden offering - for me - one of the world’s best views: the sweeping arc of Runswick Bay itself, its golden crescent of a beach, and the tortuous maze of cottages below you, tumbling towards the sea.

rushing back to health

Sounds like a nice concept, doesn't it? Well, not when you've been suffering from depression, it ain't! In fact, it's one of the most dangerous things you can do, because you risk undoing all the re-wiring that's been going on in your brain since you crashed. I think I've been doing a bit of this 'rushing' thing myself, and the trip to Filey was probably part of it - which is why I seem to have gone AWOL from the blog for a few days. I can't write when I'm not being true to myself, and a lack of truth is the inevitable consequence of 'rushing' things.

The symptoms gradually crept back; I started to feel the tiredness again for no apparent reason; my spirits began to dip; and there was no getting away from the knotted-up stomach that comes with the re-appearing anxiety. Fortunately, I had my therapist to help me see what was going on. As ever, it's nothing to do with an external 'illness', but everything to do with what's going on in my own head.

As I start to feel stronger, the expectations I have of myself begin to grow. I start to place more and more demands on myself (like going off to Filey for a night on the beers to help a mate deal with his own problems), and these demands begin to exert their own pressure. The voices chime in: 'What's the big deal? I'm feeling loads better, so I surely must be able to manage a night out and a few jars! It should be fine, and anyway, I ought to be ready to go back to work in a couple of weeks, so it'll be a good test.' These 'shoulds', 'musts' and 'oughts' seem to magically appear, as if out of nowhere, as I subtly browbeat myself into action.

It's not long, either, before the vicious circle of 'feeling worse for feeling worse' starts itself up again too. As I feel uncomfortable with these new demands I'm placing on myself, I begin to berate myself for not coping well enough, thinking 'I must try harder... come on, this is silly!' So I end up suppressing the very thoughts and emotions which have surfaced to act as my guide.

This is why we must respect depression once we are in its grasp. It takes time to do its work, and we genuinely have to learn - through the painful lessons the mind must take on board from the body - how to become well again.

the blue sky beyond

Last night, I ventured away from home for the first time since my depression struck. I headed over to the Yorkshire coastal town of Filey with my good friend Scott, to visit one of our mates who had hit a spot of marriage bother. It seems he has been digging himself a rather deep hole following a relatively innocuous run-in with his wife some weeks ago, and has successfully transformed the proverbial molehill into a pretty imposing mountain. The upshot of this is that he has been banished to Filey for two weeks (where the family have a very respectable holiday flat) in order to give them both some space to see a way forward - we hope.

As far as banishment destinations go, Filey ain't half bad. It retains real Victorian charm and a grand seafront facade, reflecting the days when it was arguably the north of England's most fashionable address. It has also manged to shun much of the tawdry tack and tat which is so evident among its better-known neighbours, Scarborough to the north and Bridlington to the south.

A full inquest was duly held into our friend's marital traumas, lubricated by several pints of real ale and St Paddy's Day Guinness. This was rounded off by a devilishly hot pizza, some rather forthright red wine and a thrashing on the pool table at the hands of a fairly amiable, but fiendishly competitive, local bricklayer. I fail to remember whether we consumed more booze back at the flat afterwards, but it's unlikely that we were able to continue our incisive forensic examination of the partnership in question - and womankind in general - without further fortification, and this morning's hangover pointed to the same conclusion.

Still, it was an absolutely glorious spring morning at the coast when we finally left - the sky was a perfect blue and the horizon over the sea was as sharp and straight as a blade. As we returned by the edge of the Wolds, however, the mist and fog closed in on us so that, by the time we were back in York, we were hemmed in by uniform greyness. It matched my mood as I struggled to shift the effects of the night before and felt a vague dread of the depression re-asserting itself.

As the morning wore on, though, I began to see the symmetry between the meteorological conditions above and the state of affairs in my own head. Sure, there was fog, mist and seemingly impenetrable cloud; there looked to be no way through, no respite, and no indication as to where or how the oppression might break up. And yet... there was blue sky beyond all this. There always is. My drive from Filey made me certain of this: I had seen it with my own eyes, and I felt sure that it was only a matter of time before the sun burned away the clouds and a perfect blue emerged once more over York.

Sure enough it did - a small patch at first, then layers of grey dissolved, slowly but surely, to leave everything clear and the daffodils a vivid yellow in the sunlight. And this is what I must remember about my depression - however gloomy, overcast and confused everything seems, there is always blue sky beyond, if only we will give it the time it needs to reappear. Wishing for it - or indeed working at it - won't make it happen any more quickly. The clouds will lift when the time is right.

depression - the nature of the beast

A chilly morning today, which I began with an invigorating run along the Ouse, a dull gunmetal grey in the early light. Later in the day, the spring sunshine is back, and I'm enjoying the birdsong in the back garden as I try to make sense of the illness from which I'm now recovering.

As well as taking us over, wiping us out and shutting us down, depression is also believed by many - certainly by the experts I have most faith in - to be a kind of defence mechanism for the body. It is an extreme reaction by the body to say 'enough!... enough of pushing me to the limit; enough of stubbornly ignoring me; enough of the wilful damage you are inflicting on me'. The body (and its raw emotions and feelings) always tells the truth, but the mind is a consummate liar... a bullshitter par excellence, a cunning manipulator of the first degree. This is particularly true of the depressive's mind, which has been acting out complex roles and weaving a well-meaning web of subterfuge for the better part of a lifetime.

The body, when it has cried 'basta!', cuts most of its ties with the mind, and goes into a form of hibernation. It must protect itself, and its survival instinct comes to the fore. The 'fight or flight' impulses which produced such a deluge of stress hormones were the forerunner to this act of surrender, when the body gives itself over willingly to the fate which awaits it.

The mind is slower to react, but react it must. Without the body as an ally, it sulks and wails, bemoaning the hopelessness of the situation until it, too, sooner or later, comes to apprehend the gravity of the situation. It closes most of its circuits down, effectively retreating into standby mode while its inner workings begin to recover and find new connections. This process takes time - indeed it must take time, as it is vital that these new connections are found.

So if depression can be seen as a defence, what is it defending us against? Well, in my case, I believe it was shielding me from what I dread most - a loss of control. Having always felt the need to work hard (or 'try harder') to succeed, this need for control is deeply ingrained in my being, and has the power to set off a painful and destructive cycle when I sense that it might not be met. In my efforts to retain control and do everything well (there's also an undeniable streak of perfectionism here), I often flail against the current while punishing myself for not making more progress. Trying hard equates to suffering, but it also equates to 'being good', because this is what won me the approval of those I loved most when I was small (and not so small!).

If I were to give up this need for control, the logic goes, I might not suffer. However, I would also not be 'trying hard'. Worse, this would risk failure and letting others down, so would clearly be 'bad'. Therefore it is some kind of warped pride which compels me to try harder and which lodges this 'fear of failure' deep in my psyche. At a deeper level, it is a child's fear of being rejected or abandoned by his mum. Therefore the prospect of not trying hard is too terrible to contemplate.

As Dorothy Rowe says in her excellent book, Depression: The Way Out of Your Prison, the illness is a defence against chaos and the terrifying prospect that you will crumble and disappear. It is 'the fear that the universe is falling apart around me and all that ever existed will disappear... the greatest fear of all'. We feel this fear, she argues, when we discover that there is a serious discrepancy between what we thought our life was and what it actually is. The answer lies in recognising the truth of our situation and in letting go of the need for control, which was only ever illusory in its nature. We come to realise that we are not in control of life's events and, what's more, we never have been. But we can control how we interpret what happens to us, and it is in changing this interpretation that we begin to see choices, possibilities and - ultimately - the way forward.

As for my own misinterpretation, perhaps I always saw my life as a pursuit of all the traditional trappings of ‘success’, obtainable only through trying hard and ‘being good’ (commendable impulses in a well-behaved 'achiever' who was seen as the golden boy of the family). The creative impulse (in my case, dreamlike escapism and the urge to write) began to feel like a frustration - or a curse, even; certainly a distraction with the power to tempt me away from what I felt I ‘ought’ to be doing - namely getting on with the business of succeeding in life. Therefore this creative impulse or 'passion' was something be suppressed, just like those early childhood emotions which weren't gaining the approval I craved.

Now, of course, I finally see that our passions are our blessings, and the potential source of all our life-affirming inspiration. This creativity isn't something I need to search for; it’s already here within me, if only I will let it emerge, grow and flourish.

This is how I've come to realise that depression is a journey into our own authenticity, and it's only cure is the truth.

happy hormones

Well, if I'm not very much mistaken, Spring is upon us at last. I took advantage of today's positively balmy conditions by taking Molly (the by-now very scruffy cairn terrier) over to Leyburn for an easy 7-mile walk through Wensleydale. Not the most spectacular part of the Dales, I grant you, but lovely in the sunshine nonetheless... rolling green pasture with newborn lambs frolicking - that kind of caper. All very good for the soul, as was the well-earned pint of 'Sheep' at the end - made at the brewery just down the road in Masham.

Feeling a touch weary now and a little weird. Can't be a case of Sunday night blues 'cos I'm still well and truly off work until my recovery is assured. More likely to be fatigue after the exertions of the day, which included a 10-mile run up & down the Ouse (and then up & down again) before breakfast... sounds a bit hardcore, but it was such a gorgeous morning that it was sheer joy to be out there. Saturday morning's running club at the gym, however ('Sweat Equity'), was most certainly hardcore: I don't think I've done a proper hill session before, but this was a killer. I held my own OK, but my calves, hamstrings and arse muscles ('glutes' to those in the know) were aware of having been severely punished.

I'm looking forward to the week ahead, which is not a feeling I've had for a while, so this can only be a good sign. It feels like there's change afoot in my life, but that just makes me want to do and explore everything, right now! Not possible, of course... keep things steady, Stevie, and continue the gradual ascent back to health.


LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

DEREK WALCOTT

emerging from a long, dark night of the soul

Friday 13th seemed like an inauspicious day to begin my first blog, but when I heard from the venerable folk at the BBC World Service that today marks the 20th anniversary of the creation of the world wide web (or t'internet), I thought I'd better get my act together. Some boffin (a British boffin, mark you!) called Tim Berners-Lee figured it out, apparently, when I was a mere strip of a lad - 17 years old, with not the faintest clue of what life was all about. So thanks, Sir Tim, for helping to open up the world a little, and for providing a chink of cyberspace for a small voice like mine to be heard.

Today I find myself at a peculiarly 'in-between' destination on life's journey. Having been plunged into a deep depression for the last two months or more, I am slowly starting to glimpse the blue sky beyond the dark clouds, and am allowing a little compassion and forgiveness back into my life - not least of all for myself.

This is not the first time I have been mauled by Churchill's 'Black Dog' (or more accurately, perhaps, Nietzsche's 'wild dogs in the cellar'), so I am painfully familiar with some of the terrain. But it is, nonetheless, akin to passing into another world where there is 'fog over the battlefield'... and where the battle is with none other than your most dreaded enemy - yourself.

So it is with some trepidation that I start writing now... a somewhat flaky state of mind, perhaps... maybe some of the old marbles are still AWOL... but it is an interesting place to be, this edge of reason, and so it might prove interesting to witness. Neither the bleak blackness of full-on depression, nor yet the bright daylight of release from its grip, this is certainly a 'grey area' in more ways than one. There's an uncertainty about where I'm headed, and the future has a worryingly vague aspect to it. And yet... there is something immensely liberating about slowing down (truly slowing down), chucking away the 'to do' list and emptying the diary.

There's so much trapped energy in my system. Recently it was locked in my body by endless negativity and painful memories, denying proper sleep while stirring anxiety and dread. Now, at last, it is being released in huge, hippopotamus yawns from the very base of my stomach after waking in the delicious sleepiness which comes from a good night's rest.

So here begins the journey online, and hopefully my various jottings will help me on my way back to good health. Whether they do or not, I hope to provide a little insight and entertainment along the way, and to prompt one or two of you to share your thoughts with me. My 'journey of the mind' won't be a trudge, I promise you. It is a journey which has already given me more wisdom and hope than all of my earlier education, and it will be balanced with plenty of other journeys - both real and imaginary - across this wonderful planet of ours. Travel is never far my my thoughts, even if I am confined to base camp for a while!