"It's not fair." - a child's lament.

A mature woman stood in front of the TV camera. She held an important position in teaching. She was giving her opinion about the reasons behind a possible future teacher's strike in the UK. The particular grievance mentioned, was about pensions. The immortal words fell from her lips, "It's not fair." I groaned.

The teachers may well have a case. I don't know the exact details, so I can't comment on the points she raised. What I can comment on, are the words she used. "It's not fair." I couldn't see whether she was stamping her foot at the same time.

"It's not fair" is a cry that can be regularly heard coming from children's mouths, whether in a shout or a whine. I should imagine that we've all said it at some point in our lives.  We discover in time, that indeed, as the grown-up response goes, "Life isn't fair."  But we learn to deal with the unfairness, managing it in more mature ways than stamping feet, slamming doors, throwing things hitting people or misusing various substances.

We can choose to accept or challenge the unfairness in a more mature way. Using the passion that lies behind a sense of unfairness and injustice can be a wonderful motivator of self and people. I honestly believe that the majority of people with political ambitions do start with honourable intentions. " Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." Lord Acton.

As long as the passion is not used by putting energy into the act of revenge.  I would not have re-trained as a therapist, if I had not been motivated by what I saw as great injustices in the care of people with mental health problems or with dubious diagnostic labels. 

"The world is a dangerous place, not because of those that do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing." Albert Einstein

We can think about why we find something unfair and perhaps understand where the root of our discontent really lies. "It's not fair" belongs to a child. Name the emotion and find the child attached to it and you could experience a personal insight. It may be helpful in the future.

An older woman felt that her husband having an affair wasn't fair.  It probably wasn't, but the language she used to describe her situation was not one of an adult. The root of her feelings of unfairness lay with being the second daughter in the family and having to put up with her older sister's 'hand me downs', including having the smaller bedroom. Those feelings had lasted decades. Now she felt like one of her husband's cast-offs.

While I can bristle at the injustices in the world, I very rarely feel "It's not fair" these days. But on the last  couple of occasions, when those words were on the tip of my tongue, a quick bit of self analysis, showed me that the feelings belonged to an under 10 year old, who was attempting to hijack me. I cringe at the memory a door slamming episode in a workplace, though it was 25 years ago.  On closer self examination I was frustrated with a situation, but resorted to a childish action to get attention. There were more mature ways to manage the situation.  

I was more controlled when faced with a man attempting to bully me in front of a colleague. His reputation was well known and as the interview progressed, the 8 year old was screaming inside my head to resort to shouting "It's not fair"... and believe me, it really wasn't fair at all. I was being 'stitched up'. With tremendous effort, I stayed in control. Okay, so I burst into tears afterwards, when left on my own, but he did not win. The next day he said, "we were very impressed how you held it together." I bet he was, the nasty individual. As a therapist working in his department, I was picking up the pieces of people who were unable to hold it together.

Though of course, as a bully, he had unmet needs too. NB: Note to self. Try to understand his obnoxious behaviour.

Most people are aware of body language and the fact that we can pick up unspoken messages from other people we are with. If we have rapport, we can often 'mirror' movements too. Following through with that observation, it makes sense that an adult may unconsiously find themselves 'identifying' with their work/client group.

If the work/client group is made up of young people, I have observed that the adult can 'mirror' their behaviour, perhaps to the detriment of themselves.  Some of the many teachers that I have met through life,  do not always demonstrate emotional maturity. The petty petulance of the "It's not fair" or "They've got more than me" variety can often be on show and tedious to tolerate. 

As a result,  their personal problem solving isn't always as good as their skills with their students. My husband found tantrums thrown by grown men in university meetings impossible to understand.  I have heard that the behaviour observed in some staff rooms is bordering on infantile on occasion. IQ is no indicator of EQ.

I attended a seminar on how to deal with angry people.  A policeman (out of uniform) was speaking. A man and a woman in their 40s were sitting together. They whispered, they passed messages to each other, they giggled and slouched in their chairs. They showed a complete lack of respect to the speaker.  I later learnt that they ran a unit for teenagers with problems. It didn't surprise me.

Returning to pensions. The state of pensions in the UK appears to be complicated, in a state of change and causing millions of people justifiable concern. I certainly can understand that a woman in her 50s, who thought she was going to retire at 60 and now finding that she won't be eligible until possibly 68, is in for a bit of a shock. But then, they will be able to claim for years spent child rearing and I was not.

But haven't women got what they asked for? Equality. It's no good fighting for complete equality with men when you're in your 20s and 30s and then complain when it doesn't suit, in the 50s and 60s. Especially in the manner of a 8 year old. 


©RitaLeaman2011

What do children need? A tale of two little boys ...and a little girl.

Two news stories from different ends of the spectrum, with similarities and a personal interest.


1. A ten year old boy was described as, "a bit naughty, a bit over active and didn't do as he was told." He was diagnosed with ADHD and depression. He was prescribed with Ritalin and Prozac.
He hanged himself.


2. A man called Bear Gryllis, tells tales of himself as a seven year old, in a new autobiography, 'Mud, Sweat and Tears.' He was naughty, over active and didn't do as he was told. 
He is an international adventurer, an author, TV personality and the UK's Chief Scout.


3. The writer has always had the attention span of a flea, can't sit still unless totally focussed, used to daydream at school and was always getting into trouble as a child and teenager.

The case of the 10 year old boy is truly horrifying. This case is not unique, either with children or adults. Any google search will reveal many scandalous cases. The questions raised should be shouted from the rooftops. Though, unless the parents are media savvy  or have financial backing, the case is likely to fade quickly from view.

I was taken to see some sort of child guidance people, but was not prescribed unsuitable medication. It didn't happen in those days.  Bad kids were locked away in Borstals, which I was threatened with many times. Not that threats did any good, they generally don't with children. So often the threats are unrealistic and not carried out. We've all been in public places and heard them. "If you do that again...etc: etc:"

I did manage to just stay this side of the law and often have to remind myself, when becoming a little too judgemental, that "there but for the grace of God, go I."  I met an old headmistress in my late 20s and  told her that I'd turned out alright in the end. Her reply? " I knew you would, you had spirit." A little pastoral care might not have gone amiss at the time, but that didn't feature at the school until two decades later. 

How did I survive serious trouble?  By the skin of my teeth and learning to be a very convincing liar. 

To those people who may think that I wasn't taught right from wrong, I most certainly was. But it wasn't until I was able to see and understand the consequenses of my actions, that I started to change my behaviour. I couldn't do that, until my emotional brain matured, around the age of 18. 

There is research that suggests the male emotional brain may not mature until later than the female's. Perhaps around 24 years of age. I can believe that, though of what use that is in nature, I don't know. It appears to cause more problems than solve them.

Back to the two boys. Both sounding like lively boys with lively minds and bodies.  Minds and bodies that needed to be loved, stretched, given attention, exercised, listened to and encouraged. There also needed to be recognition and encouragement of their own particular skills and interests, even if no adult quite understood them. 

One boy was medicated. 
The other boy was educated.

One boy died. 
The other boy thrived.

One boy is a cautionary tale. 
The other boy has tales to tell.

©RitaLeaman2011

Every picture tells a story - Alcohol sponsored anti-alcohol training programme.

Now, let's get back to Fergie and Philip Larkin's poem...

But what's this I'm hearing on the news? Diageo, one of the biggest drinks companies in the world, is giving money to the Department of Health. It will be used to train 10,000 midwives on the harm of alcohol in pregnancy. The training programme will be run by the National Organisation for Foetal Alcohol Syndrome (NOFAS).

Have you had to read that again? Sadly, it is true. Though tempting, I'm not going to write about the alcohol problems in society. I'm sure views will be strongly expressed in print and on air and we all know the arguments by now. I gave up smoking and alcohol when pregnant, because of the suggested dangers and that was in 1970 and 1973. Most people know and certainly 10,000 midwives do.


What interests me more, is the invidious brainwashing of marketing techniques, including advertising and product placement. There is a certain naivety in some people, who don't think they are influenced at all. If advertising didn't work, why would billions of pounds be spent on it? As long as we have memories, none of us are immune.

In 2007, I gave a presentation at a conference. It was about getting our emotional needs met in childhood and what can happen in adulthood, if we feel that those needs weren't met, whether it's real or perceived. At the end, one of the audience took me aside. She worked for an alcohol dependancy unit.

She was a poacher turned gamekeeper. Her previous work had been with a large drinks company. She told me that she was familiar with the emotional needs I had mentioned. They were the needs that the drinks company attempted to match with a different alcoholic drink and marketed as such. She had taken part in many such planning meetings.

So, alcohol can solve problems of status, achievement, feeling in control, friendship, feeling good enough, competency, attention, security. Of course it can't. Well, not long term it can't, without the strong likelihood of attendant problems. But the images used in marketing, will subtly suggest that it can. Someone told me that they use alcohol to self-medicate. They meant to get some of their missing needs met, except that it may well be turning into self-harm.

When the midwives are doing their Diageo sponsored training, will they have folders, pens, notebooks and other accoutrements with a brand name attached. Probably. Have you ever looked around a GP's surgery and seen the names all over the room's accessories?

Many years ago I was with the family at a Centre Parcs holiday centre about 100 miles from home. On Saturday afternoon I bumped into the practice nurse from my local GP surgery. She was off to a badminton session and was very happy. She told me that she had been attending a training on diabetes on Friday and Saturday that finished at lunchtime. Fortunately Centre Parcs was allowing them to stay on until Sunday, all expenses paid, as they couldn't let the room for just one night. Big Pharma was picking up the bill. "But of course, it doesn't make any difference to our prescribing", she said, No? Then why would it be worth the pharmaceutical company paying the bill?

I attended a seminar run by my training college. It was in a slightly faded and chilly ballroom in a Harrogate hotel. A GP practice manager said at the end, "I wish I could get my GPs here to listen to this, but the trouble is they were at Blenheim Palace last week, they would never come here."

The NHS is short of money. It can't work without the money provided by private industry, especially the pharmaceutical industry. But I suggest that it can strongly influence the people who have to prescribe.

Our brains are full of millions of images taken from our lives. Imagine the brain as the biggest photo album in the world. Now, take a pleasant image and add a smell. Add a sound. Maybe add a taste. Savour the image. Feel the emotion that arises. The memory has taken hold and could be triggered by a similar sight, sound, smell or taste.

I was in the cinema with someone who had never had children. The advertisements before the film were full of ones for cars, as usual. After one such, he said, "That's just silly. Why do they use those stupid voices?" I told him that the voices were from a favourite TV children's cartoon from the 1980s about racing cars. The advert wasn't aimed at 50-60 year olds, it was for 30-40 year olds. Clever marketing.

I am the same age as Twiggy, the 'older' model for Marks and Spencer. Sadly, that's the only similarity. The imagery is still there in her face. The 1960s. Not an official Senior Citizen. Though she is. No wonder M&S still use her. She's worth millions to the company.

The soundtrack behind adverts, smells in supermarkets, use of famous personalities, clever words, carefully chosen images. The list is endless. Match the image to a positive experience the customer has had somewhere in their lives and you may have a sale. It's why nostalgia sells so well. But a purchase bought with expectations arising from a memory may well disappoint. It can't ever be exactly the same.

If not matched to a positive experience, then promise something better for the customer. something that will make them feel better in their community, something that will make them feel better about themselves. One soap company spent many years suggesting that the worst thing you could do for your child was send them to school wearing a shirt that wasn't as white as the child who lived next door. Terrible mother. It became the brand leader.

All manipulation. All mind games. Everybody's mind worth billions of pounds.

But they won't get me. Oh no, I'm emotionally mature. It's pouring with rain. It doesn't feel like June. I need cheering up. Something that makes me think of warm summer evenings.

Now, what shall I have to drink... 


©RitaLeaman2011

"If you pick it, it won't get better." - emotional wounds.

I woke early and lay in bed planning the blog for today. It was going to be about Fergie (former Duchess of York) and blaming parents for life's misfortunes. Then I listened to the news. There was an item about Trooping the Colour in London today. I was emotionally hijacked. Fergie will have to wait.


As I lay there, doing nothing, the gentle drop of a faded memory soon became a flood of memories. I wasn't doing anything to distract myself or the flow of memories. Pure indulgence. The emotional brain really got going and soon I could feel a gentle wallowing taking over. I started to go through that day 30 years ago, hour by hour. I got up, washed and dressed, all on auto pilot.


June 13th 1981 - I was going to London to meet my mother and sister. At great expense, my mother had bought tickets for the hottest show in town. A rare afternoon and evening performance of 'Nicholas Nickleby' Parts 1 & 2. I left the house and a domestic crisis behind me. An adult was throwing a childish tantrum. Should I go or stay? Either way would cause more problems. I was torn.


I drove to West London, parked and got on a bus. I was still thinking about going back home. The journey slowed down as we approached Hyde Park. Of course, I had forgotten. It was Trooping the Colour today. I got off the bus in Piccadilly and wandered down Lower Regent Street towards The Mall. Crowds of people lined the road, but I found a decent position to view the procession. Fortunately I'm tall.


We cheered anything and everything that went by. Then the Queen rode up on her horse. No sooner had she passed, when there was a commotion on the other side of the road and the Queen's horse 'reared' up.  Police went into the crowd, but the Queen and the procession carried on. What had happened? No-one knew. There was animated chatter amongst the crowd. Then someone who had been listening to a radio said that there had been an attempt to shoot the Queen. We couldn't believe it.


I walked away and made for Charing Cross station. I needed to tell someone what I'd just witnessed and find out if the shooting story was accurate. I rang home. The reception was cool.


I walked on to the theatre, still wondering whether I should go home or stay. I felt sick. I sought out another phone box and made a call to where my children were for the day. I still didn't feel any better and walked on to the theatre. My mother and sister were there. I shared my news and also told my sister a little more of what was going on at home. But there was no turning back now.


My mother could be pedantic about the use of correct English. She questioned whether I really meant that "the horse bolted." I remember wanting to shout at her to shut up, but this was neither the time or place. I felt about ten years old. By now my simmering emotions were ready to boil over.


We watched the afternoon performance. I wish I could go back and really appreciate it all for the tremendous theatrical production it was. (Though I have since watched it on DVD with my mother.) My brain was going crazy as it darted from home, the Queen, my mother, the play, even the costumes I was organising for a local amateur dramatics production in July.  I seem to remember being overly concerned about spats.


We watched the evening performance and I wondered what I would face later on. What I had I done by staying in London? I drove home. The crisis had passed...for now.


Back to this morning and June 2011. I was remembering a day that is in my top ten of the most upsetting in my life. But for many hours I had enjoyed a wonderful theatrical performance, so it wasn't all bad. Bittersweet. Pain and pleasure. How often does that happen? But so often we focus on the pain and forget the pleasure that accompanied it too.


The point of going down this particular memory lane is to describe an emotional hijack. It came out of nowhere and was unexpected. I didn't have anything to distract me, nor did I chose to find something. It was an emotional wound and I wanted to pick at the scab and feel the pain that I knew would occur. A type of self-harm.


I couldn't help the first thought, but I did have control over the second one. I chose not to leave well alone. The toxins came out. An hour later, I was left with anger. No surprise there.


Fortunately I know how the brain works, what I was doing and how to deal with unhelpful emotional arousal. Now, a few hours later, the memory and its associated emotions have faded again and it has become a teaching tale. I'm re-telling it, not re-living it.


Not even writing about it has raised my emotional level this afternoon. Why?  Because I'm using a different part of my brain. I'm also listening to the radio as I write and watching a busy birdlife out of the window.


Multi tasking has its uses.


©RitaLeaman2011

Depressed or emotionally stuck?

Marcus Trescothick. Not an easy name to say, but one that I was able to use to my advantage in 2005. He is a cricketer.


It was coming to the end of the famous 2005 Ashes series in cricket and England went on to win a tremendous victory on the last day. The match was a nail biter and Simon Mayo, a BBC 5Live radio presenter, asked for ways to keep calm. I ended up on radio talking through some simple relaxation exercises, including one using Marcus Trescothick's name. But that's another story, for another day.


In 2006, Marcus Trescothick hit the headlines for something else. He had to return from an overseas tour with a virus, but there were rumours that it was actually something else. It turned out not to be a virus, but a serious episode of depression. By 2006, I was formulating my ideas about emotional maturity and was interested in the background to the story.  I waited to read somewhere, that some childhood memory had been triggered. I felt it was inevitable.


The background story wasn't made public for a while, but when it came out, there was what I had been waiting for. Going on an overseas tour had reminded the adult Marcus, of a horrible time when he was 10 years old and sent away to school.  


The years have passed and Marcus was on a radio programme this week. Taking part in a discussion about cricketers and depression. There it was again. Marcus talking of being abroad and feeling that overwhelming misery that he'd felt as a 10 year old. He has carried on playing a major part in English county cricket, but his international playing days are over and have been for a while. An avoidable tragedy perhaps? For England and Marcus.


Medication and talking therapies have been a great help, but unless I'm mistaken, that frightened 10 year boy is still there, ready to hijack him, if ever he found himself in a similar situation. That's a shame and I believe preventable. He's not alone.


Little boy Marcus, appears to have been frightened going away to school. I have no idea what the background details are, but after a decade in practice, I would suggest that he felt 'not good enough' in some way. Maybe to be loved, to be given attention, to succeed with school work or sport, to have friends? I don't know, but that little boy does. 


The years rolled by, the little boy grew up to be a world class cricketer. Fortunately the cricket skills did not stay as those of a 10 year old.  Nor did his body, as he grew into a man. But a small part of his emotional brain was stuck. Stuck in a state of fear at 10 years old. From what I heard on the radio, I think it still may be. The frightened emotion of that time will have been imprinted on his immature brain and his brain will want to protect him from feeling like that again.  


What were the particular triggers in 2006? After all, he had toured for many years before 2006. Could having had a baby in 2005, a child of his own, be a clue?


Some time ago, I explained to a client that something similar may have happened to him. I explained that physically it would be like his whole body growing up into one of an adult, but his left foot remaining the size it was at the time he became a frightened little boy. "My God", he said, in a moment of clarity, " I have been emotionally limping through life."


Now, this is where I may upset a few people, but medication, while it helped with the Marcus's initial trauma,  does not appear to have solved the original problem. The Big Pharma's favourite words "chemical imbalance" were used.  Nice little earner, that one.  Talking therapies also appear to have helped, but not ultimately solved the problem. In fact may have even helped keep it place. "If you pick it, it won't get better." Another nice little earner.


I believe that the problem could be solved for good. Talking therapy? Yes, maybe. The correct talking therapy.  A therapy that may de-traumatise that hijacking emotion. One that focusses on allowing adult Marcus to reasssure the frightened little boy Marcus and leave him behind where he belongs.  In the last century, in 1986. Not to keep hijacking the present and future.


I stood outside the door of my practice in the street, saying good bye to a client. "Thank you so much", he said. "I came in here a boy and have left a man." I was only thankful no-one was passing at the time and wondered quite what I was doing behind the closed doors.


©RitaLeaman2011

False Dawn

I did return. Honest. I never really went away again.

Not a day has gone by in the last few months, when some train of thought hasn't been triggered by an event in the news, a comment, a meeting or suchlike.

Yesterday I was with a friend and colleague recovering from a major leg operation. "Please write that book", she pleaded. "I need it for my clients." I left her with those words ringing in my ears, together with enthusiasm stirred by the afternoon's conversation.

This morning I received a re-tweet about a programme on Radio 5 Live last night. Two hours about depression and professional cricketers. I listened to some of it this morning on Listen Again: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b011lvqc

No doubt, an excellent programme, but some of the content caused my hackles to rise.

There was that thought again. "I must write about it on my blog." Ha! But will I?

Well, I'm here, which is a step forward. I've even dusted off the Itunes collection of 'Chasing Rainbows'.

Looks like I mean business this time.

Thank you Gail Rhodes. Thank you Michael Vaughan.

I have returned.

" How I see it..."? That's a joke. Could hardly see anything through the fog of life events over the last twelve months.

I see that my last entry was Febuary 2010. On reflection, that would indeed seem to be around the time that my plate, as in "you've got a lot on your plate", overflowed and my blogging activities fell off it.

A year later and I'm back.

New location. New laptop. New energy. New purpose.