BlackOxford's Reviews > Reasons to Stay Alive

I Did It My Way

I had a bum gall bladder for about 20 years. Twice a year I would provoke the thing to pass stones after a dose of anchovies or other purine-rich delights. I am told by several women-sufferers of the condition that the pain is comparable to that of childbirth. In my case it would often last three days with no respite, no sleep, and frequently no hope except for oblivion. Eventually, after specialist medical counsel, I had the offending organ removed. No problems since, although I do feel a little dread every time I sense a little heartburn coming on.

I recount this piece of medical history because although I have experienced the pain, and indeed degradation, of bodily disfunction, I don’t consider myself in any way qualified to give advice on the subject. I have much sympathy for fellow-sufferers and urge them to seek help when I’m aware of a need. But I would never suggest a treatment to someone else, particularly not in the middle of an attack. The likely response would be about the same as a woman in labour: ‘F-off and get this to stop!’

Matt Haig has a very different opinion of both himself and medicine than I do. He has gone through some pretty tough times. In his mid-twenties he suddenly developed acute depression that led him literally to the edge of suicide. His pain and despair were intense. His memoir is a blow-by-blow of the stages of his condition, his feelings and thoughts as it progressed, and his ultimate emergence from what many describe as a complete loss of self. His account serves two purposes he says: to publicise the character of the condition in the hope of reducing the stigma sometimes attached to it; and to use his skill as a writer to articulate his own experience as part of his own therapy. Both are laudable intentions.

But Haig, unfortunately, goes considerably beyond these intentions in offering advice and counsel to those suffering similar affliction. And it is here that I think he does a disservice to the rest of us as well as himself. Haig seems to believe that the way you should deal with people who have lost any reason to stay alive, the most dramatic symptom of depression, is to provide them reasons for staying alive. Yet he is very aware that people in severe pain don’t want his advice: “If you have ever believed a depressive wants to be happy, you are wrong. They could not care less about the luxury of happiness. They just want to feel an absence of pain.” But Haig carries on regardless in what seems like self-obsession.

Like other cases of depression, Haig’s is probably unique. Among other things he was desperately frightened of taking the drugs that might have helped him. This makes some sense since his condition likely may have been provoked by one drug in particular - alcohol. He considers himself fortunate to have recovered without meds because he was able to feel “very in tune” with himself during the process. His message from this side of his ordeal is pretty clear if more than a bit unexpected. Not ‘lay off the booze, it could catch up with you.’ Rather, ‘avoid the therapeutic drugs; they may not work, they’re addictive, and they deplete your inner resources for dealing with the malady.’ A sort of pep talk for lickin’ the thing like a real man.

Haig thinks that depression is the result of the mind lying to itself, about itself and about its future. According to Haig, the lying is mainly about self-worth - how disappointing he has been to those who live him and to himself in terms of potential. This is an interesting idea. It takes the essence of what we typically mean by ‘mind,’ namely conscious reflectiveness, and makes it its own worst enemy, an ultimate auto-immune condition, mental AIDS, only a lot more mysterious.

But then Haig ignores this interesting idea in favour of another suggestion: “All we can do, for the moment, is really all we need to do – listen to ourselves.” Yup, listen to our lying selfs. That’ll get us through. Haig claims “in the absence of universal certainties, we are our own best laboratory.” Flying solo. Listening to that inner auto-pilot who just led us to the brink of destruction. What could go wrong?

Haig’s auto-pilot in fact has a very rigid philosophical (or religious) programme: “It is a hard thing to accept, that death and decay and everything bad leads to everything good, but I for one believe it.” The defensiveness in the remark is obvious. He has no reason to believe this. It is literally a matter of faith which he needs in order to provide himself reasons for living. What he fears most, perhaps, is that this faith is a lie. To admit the possibility of the Gnostic conviction about utter corruption of the world would destroy his happy ending. So he won’t even consider it, even though he thinks, “The world is increasingly designed to depress us.” The Good is out there somewhere. It’s elusiveness is just part of its goodness apparently. Looking on the bright side is a therapeutic suggestion that is as impossible as it is trivial.

Love and books are what saved Haig, especially the latter and especially books about or by fellow-depressives. In other words things that allowed him to feel less alone. Other things - travel, running - fit into this basic therapeutic regime. But within this, there is the macho Haig, determined to beat this thing on his own: “each time I forced myself out there in the cold grey damp of a West Yorkshire morning, and pushed myself to run for an hour, it gave me a little bit of depression-beating power. A little bit of that ‘you’d better be careful with who you are messing with’ spirit.” His not infrequent suggestions that overcoming depression involves an act of will are… well, depressing.

Don’t get me wrong. Haig’s descriptions of his breakdown and what he went through subsequently are an important case study. But his suggestions, implicit as well as explicit, about how to deal with depression range from the trivial (eat well) to the absurd (tell yourself better stories), and sound like whistling in the dark. Haig says he has benefitted therapeutically by writing the book. I believe him. But being a depressive doesn’t make one an expert on depression. Yet Haig subsequently wrote a novel (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show... ) putting forth every one of his ‘tenets’ for successfully overcoming the condition.

Looking on the bright side, Haig’s memoir has convinced me not to continue with my book on gall stones and their meaning in the cosmos. I hope the world will not be less without it. It is after all a much needed gap in the market.