Thursday, August 14, 2014
Is he a bit Simon Jay is no spring chicken at Great Britain’s fair fringes. It has had previous performances in London, Brighton, Bath, Reading, Oxford and Milton Keynes. And now it’s moved up to bonnie Scotland, like a particularly weird-but-pleasant tingle.
This year’s Edinburgh Free Fringe venue is the Bohemian playground of the Counting House, home of 2013’s marvellous Austentatious. And similar to Austentatious’ downright bonkers improv Austen plays, during the various times I have seen Is he a bit, it has changed, adapted and matured.
Character comedies might be anything but few and far between at the Fringe, and needless to say, I cannot claim to have seen more but a fraction, but this was definitely one of the shows worth coming up for. It’s hard to describe this one: perhaps a wild cocktail of The League of Gentlemen meets Coronation Street on acid, spiced with a pinch of Stephen Fry.
Is he a bit Simon Jay (the character not to be confused with his “puppeteer”, the performer Simon Jay) is the tale of a man of curious biological condition – presented by a floppy claw hand sewn into a jacket draped over a chair, at his own autopsy by Dr Richard Wise, who begins to unravel the mystery of Simon Jay like a morbid Derek Acorah.
Simon Jay’s life spools backwards, revealing his story through the many characters that knew him, loved, hated or love-hated him. There is his embittered soon-to-be ex-wife Belle, his mouthy chain-smoking tough-love jailbird mother, like a car crash from an EastEnders geriatric gang war, cockney geezer Pete from the Pub (my personal favourite) riddled by his grief for his alien-probed wife Mavis and conspiracy paranoia that caused him to take a gun to his wardrobe, pathological
liar creator-of-facts Lee Buxton from the Job Centre, his employer Barry from the
sewers, a copper, a priest, a deranged-randy creature called Uncle Terry that somehow strangely rings familiar to most, his tragically
deceased sister and even an endearingly stammering Prince Bertie having to deal
with a family crisis.
All in all there are 22 characters beautifully distinguished by acting, voices and accents, which culminate in a bizarre, frantic wedding scene in which Simon (the actor) switches between them with a fluid ease, a frantic-comic energy and the humble help of a scarf, which left the audience laughing helplessly. Some might mistake the moments of stabbing satire for crude humour, but it made this here viewer cackle.
Delightful also were the cleverly improvised responses to the noise from the venues next door, providing extra giggles for the audience when it could have easily thrown the performance. Mr Jay knows his role(s) inside out, and he easily charms the pants off his audience.
Is he a bit Simon Jay? is a type of comedy bordering on the surreal that could equally bemuse and bewilder as cause wild hysterics, with an amount of cultural references that tickle older viewers but might easily be lost on the young. Mind, its brief references to sexual deviancy makes it a 14+, anyway. Still, there is plenty of hilarity in it to make it thoroughly enjoyable for a variety of audiences... given that they are willing to let themselves into an experience entirely different from the myriad of bog-standard stand-up the Fringe offers. Upon first watching it, it evoked a similar reaction in me as my first encounter with The Mighty Boosh did. But the initial “What the fuck am I watching” barrier needs to be broken for full enjoyment and the bonkers embraced in a bear hug, and once achieved, it becomes a thorough delight.
Monday, March 24, 2014
I am writing this as a particularly awful episode of depression is petering out. Slowly. My guts are still in a knot, my limbs like lead, I have lost a kilo in less than two days, but my mind at least isn’t in as much of a fog of agony and despair anymore. For now. I can't promise this won't be confusing and contradictory and downright messy and insane because my mind isn't working very well at the moment.
I’m really only feeling safe on here, partly because I am less likely to be heard, partly because probably the people who read it are only people who care. But I could be wrong even about that. That’s a fun fact about depression. It makes you question the most fundamental securities of yourself. Which I have never had much to speak of, anyways.
It’s not that these securities return. It’s just when the depression recedes – more a dirty oil slick than a wave of water, viscously retreating, rather leaving traces, than washing off clean – these insecurities are less painful, less prominent. I am a little bit more able to fool myself convincingly, I am a tad more able to live with the uncertainty, or ignore it. Pretend I’m fine to not scare or bore people off with my tedious mood swings. They come out of the blue; I can be fine one minute, and the next minute I’m on the floor, screaming, because someone has torn the shades off my eyes and I finally see things as they are.
And I can see how frustrating it must be for others to constantly have to reassure me, to not get through to me, to have to deal with the same shit over and over again. I’m not the only one in my circle of friends with depression; I know what it’s like to feel helpless and paralysed because all you want is to give them advice, a tool, something to make those feelings go away, but nothing seems to work, there is nothing you can do to fix it. You can’t grasp why they feel a certain way, why they have those awful thoughts about themselves, because you love them and all you see is a wonderful human being... surely it should be obvious to them, too? It is unbearable to watch them suffer, and you feel angry at yourself for being unable to help and, foolishly, angry at them for giving you such a futile task. And then guilty for feeling angry. But that still doesn’t mean you don’t want to help them; that still doesn’t mean you wish they hadn’t asked you for help.
And knowing about what it's like from the carer's perspective, I should know better when I’m down. But once I am there, I don’t feel like I’m lovable enough to be worth the trouble.
It is odd; somehow you’re not equipped for the job when you know nothing about depression, but when you do, when you suffer from it, which enables you to empathise, you’re weak and prone to get dragged into it, like two drowning people trying to save each other.
Last night it was almost too much. After crying for hours, my mind went cold, somehow, calm and sober (hah) and I went through my options. I considered for a moment to hand myself in, get myself “sectioned”, as they say. But the long term implications of that were too terrifying. What it would mean for my future, my ability to take care of myself even after I was “released”. My employability. Going “inside” would take away the last bits of life that I still enjoyed. Going in would mean losing my liberty, my rights to decide for myself. Is there anything worse? Even at my worst the only comfort I have is that I have the liberty to decide what’s best for myself, despite what the law says. How much liberty do you have strapped to a hospital bed? How much worse is it to still feel the same way, but unable to do anything about it, and even if it is just that final step?
A couple of years ago, when work stress brought me to the brink of a breakdown, I went to see my GP for help. I tried to describe to her what I felt, but I had phrased it badly; instead of saying that I have powerful intrusive thoughts of wanting to kill myself, thoughts that felt like entities that were covering my “true” mind like a blanket, suffocating, arresting, but still controllable and separate from me, I called them “voices”. I didn’t mean audible hallucinations, but boy, did my doc perk up. “You hear voices?” she asked, worried, and I quickly corrected that. Bless her, she was lovely and supportive, but in the end, she is a doctor with duties. And she told me that if she thought I was a danger to myself, she’d have to report it. I still feel a hot surge of adrenaline, of true terror, just remembering this.
So I ditched the idea of getting myself sectioned pretty quickly.
Instead, I made plans to end it. I tried to figure out where the best spot would be to hang myself effectively from without suffocating slowly. When you’re in a particularly deep pocket of depression, you almost think about suicide methods as a sort of reward – which one would “feel” best, if that makes sense. I don’t know where it comes from, whether it stems from self-loathing, and wanting to inflict pain upon oneself. It’s not that I would want the most painful one. It’s not “want”, like you’d choose a peach off a supermarket shelf. It’s an urge. An ache. I ached for the most...forceful, final one. The one you would do the same way you’d angrily kick a wall, to tell whoever to fuck off. As if death itself isn’t forceful and final enough, the method needs to release the anger, too. Or be an extra kick in the face of the person you hate so much - you. So it’s always been hanging or guns to me (availability not considered). But then you need to balance it against which one would leave the smallest “aftermath”.
I wondered, after reading books about crime scene cleaning, what would be the cleanest and most effective way, least troublesome for T. to clean up, or whether I should do it in the house or go off somewhere else. You know, if you sit in the bath and slit your wrists, it all sort of just drains away. Easy. I’d have to pack up my shit first, though.
And then I thought about how T. would have to tell my Dad. And how he would have to find a German speaker to write that email for him, or make that phone call.
And this is where it normally stops, my not wanting to put Dad through it. But this time I was cold, and I wanted to be scared about that, but the only thing that scared me was that I wasn't. Is that a sentence? Does that make sense?
And I would feel bad now, but I am still not in my right mind to truly regret it.
Last night I just wanted the slightest sign that somehow I was still loved enough to stick around. I know that sounds pathetic and like a massive pity party. But the thing with depression is that, once in its grip, you cannot feel or absorb love. You cannot imagine why anyone would love you; even if they do, it’s not real to you. Other people almost become an illusion. It’s not meant to demean them, it’s just how it is. And yet you need them to kick you awake, to become louder and more real than that hurricane of gloom in your head. When you’re overcome by that dark wave, your knowledge, your memories, your emotional assertiveness have as much weight and substance as spiderwebs. It takes NOTHING to shred them. This is why people keep crying for help even though they “should know better”, even though they have been reassured a million times before.
Which is why I feel so bad when I finally come out of it and see what I did to others. When they grow back into solid beings, and I see myself as a fool to not have taken or appreciated their affection, or ever even doubted it.
When the wave hits, my first instinct is to go on social media and cry for help. Because my friends are there. The problem is, everyone else is, too. And something like this will inevitably come across as attention-seeking. And then I am disgusted with myself for even thinking of going there.
Of course you may argue, I could just call a friend. And I know many have offered. But again, as soon as I do that, isolate one particular person, I am giving them a burden they may not want, or it might be a bad time for it, but it’s not exactly something they can or would want to ignore. It’s like I am obliging them... and I am terrified they will resent me for it. Or become distant. Or leave. But I hate being like that. I HATE being needy. I know how it drives people away, frustrates, annoys, and it’s that hate that fuels the depression and self-loathing even more.
Putting it on here feels like I’m putting it out there without “recruiting” someone to help me. It’s all on a voluntary basis. People can pretend they have never seen it. And that's ok. And even if they've seen it, they can stay anonymous. I don't want anyone to feel obliged to help or love me. I'd rather have nothing; it would be an insult.
Then there is the other problem of “crying wolf”.
Now here’s another home truth about depression. No matter how often you cry out, and feel better the next morning, it is never is “crying wolf”. Depression isn’t a solid state of existence, it comes in waves. And coming out of each wave without having drowned is just another time you have survived. And just because it passes doesn’t mean it feels less acute the next time around. And each time it happens, it feels all over again like it will never end. It does because it feels like you have seen things as they really are. And no matter whether you manage to get a grip on the despair, that reality won’t change, so it makes no difference. What creates the agony is not the emotion itself, it’s that you’re convinced you see unalterable reality, something outside yourself you can’t change, no matter how you feel about it. Depression ceases to be a feeling, rather, it becomes a reality. I may feel better the next day, but I know that’s just because I managed to delude myself. And when I'm truly better, I forget that I delude myself. Which is nice. I don't mind that.
Yes, I may come out the other end. And whether I delude myself into happiness or non-depressiveness, I’d rather have the illusion of happiness, and I hang on to it as long as I can. But every time I come out the other end ALONE, the less I will be armed the next time around.
Another thing with depression is that, even though you might become more and more familiar with its pattern and should theoretically be “armed and ready”, it wears down your resistance at the same rate. It’s like rust that weakens your mental structure and stability.
There is something about crying out when you’re in the deepest pit. The closest I can come to that is that film, The Ring, when they think they have broken the curse, only to realise that it will continue. Because all that girl wants is to be heard. She doesn’t want to inflict pain. She just wants to be understood. She wants to be FULLY understood. Because in utter joy and utter agony, you’re totally alone, and it’s that what’s so terrifying about it.
And writing this, I come to a realisation. That’s what I wanted. That’s why I write this. That’s why I cry out even though I know it is pointless, I can never communicate what’s going on inside me fully, until someone understands how I feel, but again, that’s exactly what I DON'T want.
When I’m down in the hole, I just want to be taken seriously. I am not a drama queen, or an attention seeker, or a wuss, or having a self-pity party. I don’t CHOOSE to go down there. I don’t LIKE being this way. I’m in genuine pain that I cannot relieve myself.
Maybe this urge is just an echo of the time when I was told over and over again to just pull myself together, when being upset or distressed in the face of violence and abuse I was told to not be a drama queen. When being crippled with depression, I was just considered a Zicke. When being terrified of going back to school because of the amount of bullying I got from students and teachers, I was just told to not make a big deal of it. Like it was my fault to be upset. It’s my default reaction now, to worry that I will be brushed off and not considered worth the time and help. Intellectually I know I am... but the rest of me doesn't.
Of course I want to stop reacting this way. But I don’t know how. It's like trying to stop your hand from flinching from a hot surface.
I can only ask, forgive me for sometimes being needy or difficult.
Yet it makes me angry because I shouldn't have to apologise for that.
I can only ask, forgive me for sometimes being needy or difficult.
Yet it makes me angry because I shouldn't have to apologise for that.
I have no final sentence, or clean paragraph, to tie the loose ends of this post. I'm just throwing it out there. Dealing with depression is an open-ended battle, with no answers, with eternal repetition of the same shit, that it seems futile for all involved. Anyone know any answers, I'm all ears.
Sunday, March 09, 2014
Oh the joy when I heard this gem had finally been translated into English! A bestselling phenomenon in mein Fazerland since its publication in 2012, it had tickled my curiosity since I first heard about it, and delighted me when it was gifted to me by the ‘rents last Christmas.
Look Who's Back is a novel about Adolf Hitler waking up in a 2011 Berlin car park, rescued by a newsagent who thinks him a hilarious and scarily convincing impersonator and promptly introduces him to some media fellers who in turn jump on the chance to line their pockets and boost the ratings by giving him some air time.
The bewildered Fuehrer, meanwhile, has to adjust to modern society, its gadgets, people, multiculturalism and social media addiction, and slowly planning, naively, clumsily, but with chilly calculation, his return to power, thus delivering a commentary on modern Germany that is equally frightening and hysterical. Let’s just say, when I read the German original, it was like hearing Adolf speak. I dunno if Vermes studied the speech patterns of Hitler before he started writing, but he did a wonderful job rendering his persona in his book. And the translation, although it inevitably lost the classic Berlin dialect spoken by some of the characters, managed to get incredibly close to the original.
It’s obviously funny seeing Hitler in his 1940s mindset interact with the contemporary age, similar to seeing Socrates and Billy the Kid stumble their way through 1980s mall strip California in “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure”, but at the same time it scathingly satirises an increasingly dumbed-down, historically uninformed or indifferent multi-media generation that is too distracted by Reality TV, sensationalist headlines and Facebook Likes to see the danger the “born again” Fuehrer really poses.
Needless to say, there is a debate whether it is acceptable to make Hitler a subject of comedy. But it’s been done before countless times, with “The Producers”, with “The Dictator”, some more gratuitous, some with enough satire in it to render it more “acceptable”. If anything, “new” about it is only that the Germans are increasingly seen to have a sense of humour about their own history. Not in a belittling or insensitive manner, mind. Hitler and the Holocaust continue to remain a serious subject over there, deeply embedded in the German mentality and Constitution. But the – in my book – ridiculous and unhelpful self-flagellation by people who were barely the glint in daddy’s eye in 1945, undermining any approach of the subject in a grown-up way, is finally starting to cease; Hitler as a subject of comedy becoming less and less restricted to the terrain of risqué Stewart Lee-type German comedians, and is particularly well-balanced in this novel.
Comedy will always remain in the grey areas of acceptability, and perhaps that’s exactly what keeps us on our toes and debating; to speak the truth like a jester, in joke form to escape medieval beheadings or modern censorship. Take from this book what you will. I for one both enjoyed and pondered it. Thoroughly.
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
I really really cannot decide whether I like this book or not. First I heard about it when John Niven put a foul quote of it on Twitter, and I was excited! Niven’s made me love the puerile hilarious antihero. It was just a bit odd coming from Coupland... the thoughtful, deep, “what’s it all mean and why are we here” author I had ranked up there with Hermann Hesse, the man who’s induced epiphanies in me with Generation X, Life after God and Girlfriend in a Coma.
It didn’t help that I read this right after Niven’s Straight White Male, and it felt like Coupland had looked over his shoulder and decided he wanted to write something like that himself ("I can do funny! Look! Look!") and just did not manage to be as funny as that. But Coupland’s my hero, so I put it down, read a few different books to cleanse my literary palate off the Niven taste and then gave it another shot.
And yes, I enjoyed it quite a bit more. It’s much more along the lines of JPod and All Families are Psychotic, just a lot more foulmouthed, (perhaps a bit too) full of creatively disgusting phrases which would be funnier if the book hadn’t been drenched in it – it just felt a wee bit like Coupland, like a dorky school boy trying to fit in with the bad guys, tried too hard. The bit that really annoyed me the most was the first chapter: the love-hate banter/battle of the words between the protagonist and his vile ex-wife is just a bit too full of pretentious witticisms, though that might just be characterisation and satire of the TV industry. Once I moved past that, the book, with some concessions, was actually quite enjoyable.
Mind, I never warmed to Raymond Gunt (though that name – genius?) in the way I love-hated Stelfox in Niven’s Kill your Friends. Making an antihero likeable despite his awfulness is a hard trick to pull off. But Gunt wasn’t even that terrible, despite his raging racism, sexism, homophobia and gleeful dislike and disrespect of everyone but him. He was just a bit of a d**k who had it coming to him, a cringey wannabe, failing at everything to the delight of the reader (cold pity is not sympathy!) while Neal, a homeless guy he enslaves as his personal assistant, is the one bagging the first class flights/ladies/food/champagne chats with Cameron Diaz. Love Neal! Neal is a legend, and the true hero of the story, a loyal, happy-go-lucky friend Gunt really doesn’t deserve.
So they take a trip to a remote island to do camera work for a reality TV show, and it all becomes a massive trip into Absurdistan. If you enjoy insane absurdity, like them accidentally starting nuclear war and Gunt escaping homeland security by means of a macadamia nut, and you’re willing to look past a few irritations, then you will quite love this. I know it’s meant to be satire, but it’s all a bit too grotesque to work that way... rather just enjoy it for its plain insanity. It’s not subtle, it’s downright juvenile in places, but it holds quite a few laughs. I looked up by the end of it and thought “WTF did I just read?”, but not without a crooked grin.
If this is your first Coupland – please don’t give up on him. Read his older stuff to get a real feel for him, because this is by far not representative of what he is capable of.
Monday, October 28, 2013
There are some books you read because you’re intrigued what happens next. Books you might only read once, and which you give up on reading when a cruel, party-pooping soul gives away the ending.
And then there are books you read because they are like a gorgeous meal. Just because you enjoyed them once doesn’t mean you’ll never eat them again. No, you’re coming back to it like a shark that smelled blood. You enjoy the beauty of the language, you love the characters, you want to relive the atmosphere and setting, the story.
Well, in the horror genre wanting to relive things might be a bit strange... but then, there is a wee bit of a masochist in anyone who enjoys a good creepy tale. I dunno why I do it to myself, because Adam Nevill – like Stephen King put it once – doesn’t just press your creep-out buttons, he hits them with a hammer. And he does so gleefully in his new book, House of Small Shadows.
The story already begins with an uneasy sense of foreboding...the odd isolated setting and description of the introductory scene feel like they might well be happening in an unsettled dream of the protagonist – a young woman, herself with a somewhat spooky mysterious past, is fragile and susceptible to strong emotions from the start. And the twinge of dread hinted at in the beginning will build and build into full-blown terror.
The descriptions are lyrical, beautiful, but in their vividness manage to trap the mind and draw them into a world it will struggle to free itself from, and, absurdly perhaps, will crave more of. The horror characters, marvellously larger than life, without ever slipping into clichés.
I won’t give away any of the story; I won’t deprive you of the deliciousness of discovering it yourself. But be warned.
This is a book written for those of us who are still afraid of the dark and the nameless living shadows it holds, who are gripped by the visceral and unexplained, who are haunted by images we can’t explain why they disturb us... they do it on a level that will make us small children again, with no words to explain the fear. It’s a book for those who love folklore, the nostalgia of beautifully made things from over a century ago, and who cannot help even loving the barely perceptible taste of rottenness of it once properly savoured. As you would admire a beautiful old doll, but at the same time never infest your house with its creepy porcelain features.
House of Small Shadows is a truly gothic tale, containing all the wonderful elements that recently have been revived in good horror features. Haunted, mysterious mansions. Antique dolls. Taxidermy. Abandoned villages with hints of the Wickerman-esque. A mad Miss Havisham type woman, a truly terrifying hag, who seems as much conjurer and victim of the scare fest going on in the house. A mentally unstable young woman thrown into this maelstrom. Flashes of children – are they ghosts, flashbacks, hallucinations? We cannot know. It is a spiralling nightmare of ever-increasing Victorian grotesque, stirring a progressively unstable reality and the haunting dreams and flashbacks of protagonist Catherine into a terrifying concoction able to push her, and with her, the reader, over the edge.
Nevill might not have done himself a favour by writing about creepy dolls – a lot of people flinch away from that subject like from a fat, hairy spider. But I knows youse got guts! And I, for once, squealed with joy. Creepy dolls are just PERFECT!
Needless to say, on plenty an evening home alone, in my creaky attic room, I was on the verge of regretting it, having to put the book aside in shock, for a quick breather and an expletive bursting from my lips like a corrupted spring bud, then sobbing to myself “why am I doing this?”.
I tell you why. Because Adam Nevill is literary crack. He knows how to get you, and he knows how to keep you. While you’re being watched by a thousand glassy eyes.
And you’ll come out a stronger person for it. Trust me. >;D
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Cracked. That’s the only possible way I can describe this book. Oh it made me angry. Livid. And I could only dream about ever being able to write as good and fitting a review as Andrew Solomon did in his essay “Smug about Suffering”, which I really recommend – beg, beseech, implore – you to google and absorb. But I’ve got enough fury in me to add my own nickel of doom. I can only offer a few points because I could happily turn this into a dissertation, but I shall spare you.
The good bit, short and sweet: Yes, it was very readable, and as far as I can see, it has had great reviews (though I cannot possibly fathom why). And I am the first to agree that there might be occasions when people get overmedicated unnecessarily, and that it is a golden goose for the pharmacy industry. But something being profitable doesn’t necessarily equal sinister intentions.
The bad bits (and I hope you’ve got a few minutes, because there are lots): This has got to be one of the most one-sided, self-aggrandising, misinformed and irresponsibly polemic books recently written on the subject.
Another reviewer pointed out that a book written against the use of psychopharmaca and advocating an increased use of psychotherapy comes, I guess, at no big surprise from a psychotherapist. Talk about the sweet irony of applying Davies’ conspiracy theory of the pharmacy industry back onto himself. It works both ways, Mr Davies.
The one thing I agree with Davies on is that medication on its own often only masks the problem, and does not cure it – but no one has ever claimed it does. Though funny enough, that’s exactly the absurd accusation Davies hurls at psychiatry at various points in the book. Psychiatry is still in its baby shoes, the brain and mental illnesses largely not understood, but that does not mean we shouldn’t use the little knowledge we have to help ease mental suffering.
Demonising and attempting to discredit something which has saved the lives of so many of us in favour of something most of us only have limited to no access to is downright sinister.
Fact is, the therapy a lot of us need, CBT or whatever other kind Davies (rightly) makes his case for, we cannot access at all, because most of us cannot pay the outrageous fees in the private sector, or we have to join huge queues on waiting lists that often last a year or longer – and some of us haven’t got the strength to wait that long. The six free NHS sessions we are entitled to are done by counsellors, not trained psychotherapists, and due to government cuts, there are less and less mental health centres around, with staff in there hopelessly overwhelmed and under-trained.
The practical truth of the matter is, most of us have to do with pills. I should know. I’ve been on medication for nearly a decade, and several attempts to come off them failed. (Not because there was a problem with addiction, as Davies is quick to claim - it was simply that my old condition resurfaced and regained the upper hand.) Maybe if Davies is willing to come off his smug high horse and open a NHS mental health facility that provides care to those of us who cannot afford the insane fees he probably charges, he can talk again. But he probably won’t, and that makes him just another cafe activist.
In Davies’ view, psychiatry has become so reliant on and biased towards drugs that it perpetuates a treatment model in which therapy has been moved onto the back burner and people instead are stuffed with pills as a cop-out solution. Part of me wants to agree with that, but then he fires off the most outrageous claims and solutions. He quotes psychiatrist Duncan Double’s suggestion that “the only thing that is going to change things is if people literally stop going”. What does that mean? People stop taking meds out of protest?? The grassroots movement Davies dreams of would result in mass deaths, most likely by suicide. Baby and bathwater springs to mind.
Davies makes it appear that all antidepressants have terrible side effects and work not much better than a respective placebo. That is pretty much saying that mental illnesses treated with medication can just be “thought” away at random, again implying the old stigmatising thought that we need to “just get over ourselves”. Which is a terrible thought coming from a psychotherapist, and a Social Darwinist one to boot.
There might be truth in these side effects and not knowing whether meds will work. Well, sadly, in case of mental illness, you don’t get to choose the perfect option – because it doesn’t exist. Fighting mental illness is often choosing the lesser of the evils, weighing the drawbacks and benefits of both medications and the actual illness. For me, a few weeks of nausea and dizziness was but a small price to pay if it meant ending the agonies of permanent terror and black clouds of despair, numbness and emptiness. Finding the right medication, and the right dose, is often a matter of experimenting. I had side effects, but they went away once I got used to the meds. I have tried meds that didn’t work for me, and switched to others that do. Mind, I accept that some aren’t as lucky as I. But the pros and cons of medication is not something you can apply as a blanket statement over the whole of psychiatry. It’s down to working with individuals.
Then there is Davies' outrageous claim about psychoactive drugs altering personalities. If you want to read the other side, read Kramer’s Listening to Prozac. And then let’s delve into personality theory and what constitutes that concept. Frankly, in my view it’s b****t. Most people I know who are on psychoactive drugs feel like they’re back to their old selves, they’ve got their life back, their own persona managed to get the upper hand over the vines of mental illness that choked it. Including yours truly.
Only once did I have a friend who told me she didn’t like the change in me. “I was not who I was before”, she complained (though she had only ever known me as depressed), making the assumption that that ill person was me, thus equating my illness with my personality. The thought that a friend of mine wished me to suffer so she didn’t have to deal with a (positive!) change in me was too much – and needless to say, I have safely removed that so-called friend from my life.
At times Davies goes as far as dismissing the agony some people suffer as nonexistent in terms of illness or dysfunction, arguing that life contains suffering and it is important to deal with it, claiming medication stops us from doing just that. This goosestepping kind of cruelty makes me sick. Yes, there is suffering, and yes, we need to deal with it. But there is the type of suffering everyone experiences due to circumstances, and then there is the pointless pain in mental illness, which does not need an external cause, or takes a minimal external cause and blows it out of proportion.
Another of Davies’ crazy arguments is that religion used to act as a tool to cope with life, and its increasing disappearance is partly responsible for the increase in mental illness. Well, I used to live and work in a religious community – and I have seen just as many cases of people suffering from mental illness in that sector as I have in the secular one. The only difference was that often their anxieties and despair took on a religious flavour, if not got exacerbated by it. Take OCD and depression and add to that the literal fear of hell and damnation, plus perhaps a delightful community that blames your mental illness on your lack of faith and perhaps on demon possession, and you’re in for a fun ride. I was just lucky enough to have a pastor who could see the difference between spiritual and mental health problems and advised me to seek medical help.
But it’s not just Davies’ ridiculous arguments that drive me up the wall. It’s also how he deals with his opposition. A fine (and much infuriating) example of how he tries to discredit them is seen in his interview with Professor Sue Bailey, president of the Royal College of Psychiatry, who talks sense, compassion and common sense, who sees it as her first duty to help suffering patients and not engage in the one-sided intellectual masturbation Davies seems to be so fond of. He describes her as some sort of ball-breaking harpy, as “impatient” and “irritable”, while he depicts himself as “gently pointing things out”, a humbly “mumbling”, “ear-rubbing” nervous grassroots fella taking deep breaths to not be run over by her. Oh poor martyr. He claims to struggle to understand what she is saying, when anyone with two brain cells to rub together can make sense of “we should focus on the reality of what we can do as doctors, rather than having erudite discussions about the various situations of what DSM should have done.” Davies doesn’t seem to comprehend that this type of Michael Moore-ish writing only serves to discredit himself.
I could go on and on, but I shall stop here. Suffice to say, yes there are people for whom psychoactive drugs have done more harm than good. They have come off them and chose not to go there again. But that’s fine. Each person is different, and each person needs to make their own choice about it. But dismissing the entire thing is dangerous, cruel and downright murderous – to quote Andrew Solomon’s critique of this book, “Davies’s book will likely influence at least a few people away from treatment that could save them. Some of these people may commit suicide and others will live in dire pain. His arrogant, ill-informed attempt to discredit psychiatry leaves him with blood on his hands.”
If you want a really well-rounded, good book to read on depression, anxiety and mental health in general, read Solomon’s “NoondayDemon”. Now that man knows what he is talking about!
Meanwhile, Davies should give up his profession and try his hand at something he is really good at – the fearmongering, mass-duping, misinforming mutant of pseudo-journalism they serve at The Daily Mail.