My best present this Christmas was a long, green, waterproof coat with a fluffy, white inner lining, which is more like a portable duvet than an item of clothing. It is so exceptionally snug that it attracts comments from members of the public, like a dog or a baby. When I put it on, I see myself as an entirely new person: a hardy, outdoorsy type who goes for cold water swims before work.
I took the duvet-coat with me to my suburban Midlands hometown in the midst of a recent mental health “relapse”. I loathe the word relapse, as the “lapse” part suggests that you have carelessly misplaced your sanity like loose change down the back of the sofa. To me, relapse actually feels more like losing a particularly arduous game of tug-of-war, where my sanity is pulled through my fingers, regardless of how hard I try to cling on.
During my latest bout of madness, my usual, tried-and-tested “sanity first” plan—for which I work through a series of helpful activities like mindfulness and exercise—has been undermined by a despondent mood. So, for the first time in years, I have had to complement my trusty techniques with a new approach advocated by my latest therapist. This one focuses on “self-compassion”, and is based on the idea that those of us with a clinical tendency for self-beating need to find a kinder way of relating to ourselves.
As a woman who has never denied herself a single treat—and has a bad habit of responding to her low moods by buying Freddos from the newsagents and eating them in bed watching Downtown Abbey—I wasn’t sure that I needed any encouragement to let myself off the hook. Surely what I needed from my new therapist was the opposite: discipline, structure, tough love? A firm reminder to live by my values, rather than my most self-indulgent whims?
Like any good, depressed person, I mulled and ruminated and stewed over this dilemma during a crisis weekend at my parents’ house. I had half-heartedly written out my usual list of “sanity-saving” activities, which included “go for a walk every day”. The relentless winter weather made this instruction particularly difficult to follow. From the chair I was camping out on, I could see the duvet coat waiting for me patiently on the radiator.
When I thought about the logistics of taking a walk, I felt intimidated by the amount of effort required to change out of my pajamas. It would be cold and unappealing to unwrap myself from the blanket I was cowering under and go upstairs to change. I looked again at the duvet coat. What if I just put it on over my pajamas and walked out the door? This felt like a much more manageable course of action, and I found the tiny spurt of motivation I needed to do it.
Before I knew it, I was in the local park. Even though the weather was grey and rainy, I enjoyed the satisfying slosh of the raindrops hitting the surface of the park’s tiny stream. Dogs with cheerful-looking owners bounded towards me and, when the wind died down, I could hear the faintest beginnings of birdsong. For the first time in days, I could just about make out the world that existed beyond the edges of my own misery.
I began to think that self-compassion might be the mental equivalent of putting on a huge duvet-coat before walking in the rain. Without the coat’s comforting invitation, I would not have had the gumption to get outside at all. Like my duvet-coat, scientists have found that self-kindness can form a protective psychological layer, helping people to face their challenges and respond proactively to them. Self-criticism has the opposite effect, increasing people’s depressive symptoms and sometimes undermining their ability to meet their goals over the long-term.
Giving myself kind, gentle words of encouragement—instead of good British chastisement—feels so foreign it is almost embarrassing. But if I learn to do it, maybe I’ll eventually become a disciplined cold water swimmer worthy of the coat.
