One of the worst times in life is when love dies or disappears. Oddly enough, it's also the thing we don't get time off for at work. It's not an occasion for sympathy cards or visits from concerned friends. We're expected to somehow get through the agony of a breakup without talking about it, without seeming what we are--devastated, destroyed, in despair. 
Psychotherapist Guy Winch has helpful advice for getting through a breakup--I'll put a link in at the end of this post. My advice is for the friends and family members of someone who's going through a breakup. Because you're the ones who can help make a bad situation better, possibly even bearable. It may feel uncomfortable--as bystanders, we're taught to look away when someone is in emotional pain over a relationship that's ended or never gotten properly off the ground. We're not taught to help, and not knowing what to say or do makes people want to avoid the topic. You might tell your friend to buck up, to forget it, that that other person was never any good, and then you hope and pray that the stoicism and shame that attend the ownership of a broken heart will prevail. 
But think back--remember. Did you ever want someone who didn't want you back? Fall in love with someone who wandered off with someone else? Thought you'd found your forever home, then discovered you'd placed it in the wrong heart? Most of us have been disappointed in love at some point. There are few greater sources of pain.
What, aside from the continued presence of that one irreplaceable One, did you want at three in the morning when you couldn't sleep? On Sunday when there was nothing to do and no one to do it with? When there seemed no point in cooking a meal that would be eaten alone? What did you need? Think on that, and then give what you needed to the person you care about who needs it now. Who needs YOU now.
How to help
It can be as simple as a daily text or phone call, checking in and saying How are you? If you're brave enough, you can invite your loved one to talk about their loved one, and what they're going through. You can invite the brokenhearted to dinner, or over to watch TV. Give littl gifts, pay attention. You can go the extra mile by inviting them to stay with you for a day, a week or longer. Help them be distracted by days out at the beach, the park, the museum, and introduce them to new people, preferably amusing people.  Let them know they're still loved, by you, and that love will come again.
"Get over it" is the wrong thing to say
What's not helpful is to say some version of, "isn't it time you got over it?" That hurts the other and makes them feel ashamed and alone. Rather, say something like, "I know this is awful for you. Take all the time you need. I'm here. I'll be here."
It's probably not helpful to say early on in your friend's grief what a rat the lost loved one was, how s/he/they were never good enough, that they'd done various rotten things you hadn't mentioned before. Focus on your friend's distress, and don't sling mud. It doesn't help and may even hurt (and people have been known to get back together and dump the friend who'd tried to be supportive!) It's also probably not too helpful to spend much time discussing why it ended--it feeds the obsessive quality of a lover who's lost. There's a story about a famous American novelist who, when her husband asked, "Why are you leaving me?" replied, "Because it is time."
Guy Winch does recommend that people keep a list in their phone of the bad things that happened or the bad qualities of the lost love, to consult when tempted to recall and grieve over the good things. Reminding yourself of what wasn't good probably helps, but I'm not so sure it helps when someone else does it!
Being alone doesn't aid recovery
Sometimes, the pain is so great, the impulse is to isolate oneself, like the story we tell each other about wounded animals seeking a quiet place to lick their wounds. But, according to Winch (and I agree), being alone doesn't help: it fosters rumination and sends you into a rabbit hole of confusion and regret. Asking why something ended the way it did doesn't actually help: it keeps us stuck in the story. Help your hurting friend escape the trap of trying to understand why it ended. Bang on their door; send them flowers with an invitation to come out an play, no matter how miserable they feel. Serenade them under the window and embarrass them in front of the neighbours. Don't let them shout and send you away--say with great serenity, "You can yell all you want, but I'm not leaving until you come with me to the cinema, the star party, the coffeehouse, the open mic, the naked sauna, Paris." Become a pain in the arse if you have to. They might shriek at you to get lost, and threaten dire consequences, but one day, they'll say thanks for being such an annoying, irritating, jerk, a buttinsky, a nosey parker, a violator of their privacy.  Shove some chocolate brownies through the letter slot, sit on the front stoop and wait.
Touch
Being touched by someone you care about who cares back is a healing thing. Caring touch registers in the brain, telling us from a bodily sense that we are safe and not alone. In the way a parents holds their baby, tenderly, firmly, you can comfort your hurting friend, with hugs, pats on the shoulder, stroking their hair. You can take their arm when you walk, or hold their hand. If your friend is a victim of social rules that say being touched isn't "manly", slap them on the shoulder, shake their hand when you meet and part.  Consoling touches from someone who cares helps us feel embraced and secure. (Even big, strong, independent types sometimes feel like crying and want a cuddle--even if they can't ask for it out loud.)
And if someone is in big trouble and you can't help, see if you can get them to talk to a professional counsellor, or someone in their faith group, or a wise older person they trust. Sometimes we need a stranger to spill our secrets to, to work through the pain and shame, to make a new plan, to help us hold on. Sometimes we can't let our friends or family members close enough to help--it hurts too much. Therapy, even when it's not about unrequited or lost love in particular, is often about the vast disappointments of not having been loved enough by the right people, in the right ways, at the right time. Therapy is a good place for waiting out the storm with someone who can hold the umbrella without getting drenched themselves. 
I'll end with that link to Guy Winch talking about ways to heal a broken heart.
Guy WInch Ted Talk

One of the things we should be taught from early childhood and generally aren't taught at all, is how to calm ourselves down. Remarkable, isn't it? After all, from before the time we can speak, when we're just little adorable mewling packets of needs, we get upset. We're hungry, sleepy, wet--with good parenting, our needs are met, but even in the finest childhood, parents can't meet every need every time. Teething and colic, dropping an ice cream on the playground, fighting with other kids--to losing money in the stock market, arguing with a spouse and trying to work out why the baby is crying when we've tried simply everything--life is full of upsets.
The wellbeing world inundates us with advice about calming ourselves, and if we'd actually DO some of those things, we'd probably find ourselves calmer. Unfortunately, the rest of the world is deeply threatened by wellbeing priorities of people who are relatively content,--people steeped in good feelings, compassionate to themselves and others, and easy in their skins are notoriously hard to control. Calm, centred people are bad for an economy based on the ridiculous (and pervasive) notion of unlimited growth. They refuse to buy things they don't need; they don't care a fig for keeping up with the Jones, and instead of turning to shopping or dating apps when distressed, they do things that don't cost anything: look at the sea, breathe deeply and gently, sing a little song. 
I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist, but it's pretty clear that our current model of society rests on making and keeping lots of people uncomfortable and then selling them things. Buying something gives us a short hit of feel-good--very, very short. Then you've got to find something else to buy.
Or, you can learn that when life is trying to capsize your boat, there are simple, effective skills you can learn to stay afloat, regain your sense of ease and navigate to a safe shore. The hardest part is remembering that when the oatmeal hits the fan, to counter the panic or fury with these learnt skills. You have to learn them, and then learn when to apply them, and then practice applying them until they become natural alternatives to freaking out. There are loads of them, and some will work for you and some won't. Because you're an individual, with your own past, hangups and preferences. You may find that you need to modify a calming technique, that it works better for you in a different way. Fine! Do that. 
But if you're new to self-calming, peruse this list and try the strategies, find what works for you and incorporate them into your daily life. By that, I mean, practice them daily. You can use the little annoyances of life--not being able to screw the toothpaste cap back on evenly, or having a partner who won't do it at all--to start building your mental muscles for the big, awful stuff when it comes along. One thing's for certain--we don't have to go looking for troubles in life--they'll come right to the door, crawl in bed with us and keep us up all night with inane chatter and the sound of breaking glass. 
Ways to calm down.
1. Dr Rick Hanson points out that simply looking at the wall of the room you're in can help you access a feeling of stability. When something seems to be pulling the rug out from under your feet, looking at the wall, you remind yourself--"this wall is still standing. It's stable and it's not going anywhere. This, at this time, I can feel relatively certain about."
2. If you're outside, paying attention to a tree can be a calming and centering activity. Look at its height, the branches that shelter birds and protect the earth underneath from drying out in the sun. Consider the root system that may be as large as the part of the tree that's on top of the earth. The trunk that's strong and grounded, that you can run your hand along and feel its skin under your own. 
3. Inside, you can turn yourself into a tree. If something's happening that makes you feel shaky and unsure, put your feet on the ground, grab onto the ground by curling your toes (you don't have to take off your shoes, and no one at the meeting needs to know you're temporarily accessing your tree nature). Imagine roots growing from the bottom of your feet (or shoes), sinking deep into the earth, holding you straight and steady. 
4. Take a break. Sometimes, leaving a stressful situation for a few moments helps us re-orient, get a grip on unruly feelings and then return refueled and ready to re-engage. Getting a glass of water can be a big help--enjoying the coolness of the liquid and the reminder that you're a human being doing what human beings have always done. Getting someone else a glass of water can provide another reason to leave a room when it starts feeling way, way too small, and brings some good feelings into the space. 
5. Everyone and her sister will tell you that one way to calm down is to breathe. That's because, for many many people, conscious breathing is the most immediately effective way to feel better when we're under stress. There are lots of breathing techniques, and some may not help you much, but others can. My personal favourite is to inhale slowly and deeply, feeling my rib cage and stomach expand, breathe out more slowly, so that the exhale takes longer than the inhale, then when the air is gone, just wait a beat or two before inhaling again, feeling the stomach widen with the new incoming air. Practice with different breathing styles until you find your go-to. Notice I said "practice": the more practice you get with calming strategies, the more likely they are to work easily when you need them.
6. Have a cuddle. There's nothing like a safe, secure touch to make us feel safe and secure, even loved. If there's someone around you like to hug, ask for a hug and stay there for at least a count of ten. It doesn't have to be a human, either: you can cuddle your dog, cat, marmot, even a teddy bear. Putting on a fluffy robe can feel like a warm hug. There are lots of ways to access our inner child, the one who wants holding and closeness.
 In a pinch, even hugging yourself can feel really good. You might prefer it, especially if hugging wasn't a thing in your family, or if people haven't touched you respectfully in the past.  Try this: Wrap your arms around yourself, drop your head like a bird with its head under a wing, and go into what online Yoga teacher Adriene calls your "love cave". Stay there a minute to calm down and get over the feeling that it's silly to hug yourself (which we've been taught and need to unlearn!). Then, stay there another minute to enjoy the feeling of being contained, held safe in your own arms. 
7. Singing and humming do wonderful things for our nervous systems. Harmonising with other people is one way to feel connected and even blissful. Singing with your favourite singers, humming as you work, surrounding yourself with music you love can soothe and calm jaded nerves. Sing to your children, to your mate, to your pets. Join a choir. Consider playing calming music when you're cooking, bathing, resting.

When you take the time and make the effort to calm yourself down, you're also building your self- concept as someone worth protecting. Many people didn't learn their worth in childhood--too often they weren't protected, cuddled or sung to. We grow up thinking we're not worth the time it takes to make ourselves feel less agitated--or even that we're not supposed to feel calm and content. Practicing self-calming not only teaches us how to return to a calm state when something has unsettled us; it also helps embed those feelings in a longer-term way in our bodies and brains. Imagine if, in a general sense, you always felt more stable, more easy, less ragged and fraught. Less likely to be upset and more likely to recover quickly when upsetting things happen.  Practicing calming strategies even for a minute at a time can help build a solid core of calm that remains fairly unshakeable, whatever life throws your way. 

​My first therapy job in the UK began during Covid, when we were all seeing each other exclusively online. Being camera-shy all my life, I was secretly horrified to realise that my practice now involved speaking to people through a video camera--to be honest, I nearly chickened out right then. The idea of sitting in front of a camera, talking to someone else who's sitting in front of a camera--it seemed utterly bizarre. And on top of the weirdness of being so divided by geography and virtually brought together by technology--I wasn't at all certain that online therapy could work at all. I had deep misgivings, but needs must, and I decided to give it a go.
Nearly five years later, doing therapy online is second nature: 15-20 minutes before a session, I scan my notes and have a little think, move the laptop to the desk, cue up the email with the link in it, make sure the phone is on Do Not Disturb, adjust the webcam and light and login to the meeting. The client arrives; we fiddle around with our sound for a few seconds, and begin our conversation.
It does "work". It's not the same as being in the room together: I wouldn't say one way is better than the other in terms of connection, conversation or outcomes. The ways are different, certainly.
One thing I noticed is that, in the absence of seeing each other from top to toe, both the client and I pick up on facial and voice cues with more sensitivity: with practice, and knowing each other, micro-expressions can have the same impact as, say, throwing a cushion across the room. And it works both ways: I might say, "I notice you smile when you're telling me this difficult thing," and someone might say to me, "Your eyes just changed: I think I know what that means." We're not only noticing micro-expressions; they become part of the conversation, and deepen the ways that we know each other.
One of my first projects during Covid was to lead groups of students and their tutors from a local college: the counselling centre had contracted to provide online wellbeing sessions. Remember--I was still new to working online. I found in the groups that many students didn't turn on their cameras. Even worse, some of the tutors wouldn't turn theirs on, either! I found myself speaking into a black void, and if I was lucky, someone might respond to a question and let me know there was someone actually out there by a sigh or occasionally, a laugh.
My suspicion was that, as students (and tutors)  didn't have to prove they were paying attention, many put the laptop on, crawled back into bed and spent the hour scrolling on their phones. It felt awful to talk and not know if anyone was listening. People's names showed up in the sidebar when they logged in, so, in theory, at least. people were attending. And when I asked a question of a particular person, their voice would come out of my speaker with an answer. But not seeing anyone whilst knowing they could see me was disturbing to me--even distressing. It seemed unfair, rude even--and it made me cross.  And the sense of anger and injustice arising in me made me curious. Why did it bother me so much?
Therapists who study attachment have found that when an infant's mother doesn't respond to her child--looks at the baby with no particular expression and ignores the baby's invitations to engage--the baby first tries harder, then very soon becomes distressed and despairing. This all happens in about a minute--that's how finely tuned we are. We need to be seen by our mums, and we need to know we are seen. We need that feedback, or we quickly lose hope. 
The problem with a meeting that lets people attend without being on camera is that, although they can see other people, they can't be seen. For many people, that's the wish: to be able to see others and remain hidden. After all, if others see us, they will quite possibly judge us--and find us lacking. (I'll mention here that many times at the start of the session, the client and I are both not only adjusting the sound, but, suddenly aware of being seen, are fiddling with our hair.)
What we think we want is to see whilst staying safe from the eyes of others. Voyeurism--the word is usually pejorative, with all sorts of undertones of sex and control and power--but we can also see it as the wish to see without being exposed ourselves. To some extent, we all have that wish to remain safe, our flaws hidden. For some, it is as strong as the wish to belong: they try to be part of the group without risking actually being seen.
And it doesn't work. We become bored, lost, alienated.
It's not only about the unfairness of seeing others when they can't see you; what is crucial about belonging is that not only do we need to be seen; we need to feel that we are seen by others. Without knowing we are seen, without that feedback of another's eyes on us, we are like the baby whose mother doesn't smile back: we are lost and alone. But as adults, we may not know that on the top of our minds: the need we first experienced in infancy lies buried under layers of experiences and fears about what it is to be seen and possibly judged, and even about what we actually need versus what we think we want. 
In the middle of the night when she wakes up crying, a baby can be held, even in darkness when she cannot see her parent's face. She can smell the unique scent of the person who holds her. As adults meeting online, there are only two points of connection: video and audio. We can't even shake hands online: in the absence of touch, we are even more adrift. 
So, the reasons to be visually present when working online are several--. 
it's polite, yes. It's fair. It's reassuring to the people you're meeting with, as they know they are being seen by you--it nourishes the part that from birth needs the feedback of another's gaze. And by the same token, the thing you may think you don't want, that doesn't seem worth the risk of showing up--is actually the thing you need at a level so deep you may not even recognise it as a need. 
To belong, we all have to take risks: there's no free ride. The payoff is when you know someone is not watching you, but seeing you, and the ways that seeing leads to knowing. As infants we need to be acknowledged and brought closer, as adults we need to feel that someone else is interested in knowing us. Online, that takes the form of looking into another's face and knowing they're looking back. In therapy, research shows again and again that it's not the type of therapy you have that makes it work: it's the relationship between the therapist and client that makes the difference. Being known and accepted, and knowing and accepting in turn create powerful healing. Inside, we're all still the infant who needs to connect with someone who cares. To do that, we have to see them seeing us.
​It didn't take me long to draw a line with the online groups: you had to turn on your camera. In those early days of Covid, no one had really worked out the rules for living together online, but in the intervening years, I think we've all come to some understanding about how to work together online. We have our setup rituals, backup plans for when the internet lets us down and moments of unexpected delight--as when a random cat wanders across someone's keyboard. Sitting in a room or meeting online, we make the time and take the effort to know each other, to belong in that time to each other. Whether we're in the same place or not, the way we see and are seen by each other--that's what nourishes and sustains us: that's where the magic happens.

any of the clients who come to the counselling centre where I work have already tried counselling in some form; usually through sessions offered by the NHS. In most cases, NHS therapy is cognitive-behavioural and time-limited, sometimes to 6-12 sessions. People finish their course of therapy, find their problems still exist, and eventually find their way to a service where they pay for their own therapy.
By the time they reach us, many people are already taking some sort of medication, usually for anxiety or depression, or for symptoms such as sleeplessness and panic.
My initial training took place in the US, where most medical care is privatised and patients can choose to visit a psychologist, psychiatrist, psychotherapist or counsellor withouot first seeing a general practitioner or any other sort of physician. (That's assuming they can afford any help at all, which many, unfortunately, cannot.) 
But in the UK, the way to be referred to a NHS-approved psychological therapy is to first consult your GP. Most GPs know next to nothing about psychology: they receive very little training in matters of the mind, even their own mind--and they're allocated perhaps ten minutes in which to meet, speak to and diagnose a patient. They are trained to prescribe drugs, and the pharmaceutical companies deluge them with marketing materials--medicine is Big Business. And don't forget mile-long waiting lists for psychological therapy in the NHS. What's a GP to do with a patient whose suffering stems from non-physical causes?
When you put together the lack of education in matters of the mind, the lack of time, the pressure of seeing too many patients, the physcians' inability to even take care of themselves at work-- and then add in the easy availability of drugs--it's easy to see why many GPs, when faced with an unhappy patient, reach for the prescription pad. And, as it's the only possibility of quick relief, and it's being recommended by a medical expert, many patients accept medication.
The trouble is, most of the time, what's causing the problem isn't helped, except perhaps superficially and temporarily, by drugs. Sometimes, drugs make the problems worse.  And drugs have side effects that create additional problems, sometimes major ones. 
There are very few psychological problems for which medication is the answer, and these problems are severe. Schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder are two conditions in which the use of drugs may be warranted--but not always even then.  In fact, there is evidence that even severe psychiatric disorders can be worsened by medications, particularly as medications may not be right for the individual. But because the patient is considered mentally ill, prescribers may not be willing to listen to the patient who says, "The medication makes me sick, dopey, unable to think straight. I don't sleep properly; I have new symptoms (which may be found in the list of side effects provided with the medication).  
There is also a big problem with how people are prescribed drugs based on their race, age and gender. Prejudice shows up in the overmedication of women, people who aren't "white", aren't British (or from whatever country they're currently in), and the elderly. basically, if you are a member of a group that is socially marginalised, you are more likely to be medicated, often wrongly so.
My take on medication is, if it's an emergency, take it. In an emergency,  if your life is in danger, it's any port in a storm. Otherwise, be very, very careful; even wary, of drugs.
That said, a course of sertraline once helped (I believe) to save my life.  I had been brought so low by a longterm depression that, after more than a year of struggling with it, I finaly told someone of my desperation. But I also can't swear that it wasn't the kind listening and active helping of the therapist I turned to, who helped me find my way to a prescribing psychiatrist, that turned me around. Her loving acceptance and guidance put a light back in my world and gave me hope. She brought me the energy of hope, I took the pills, started therapy as well, and I recovered. Who can say what it was that saved me? If I had been able to buy the pills direct from a vending machine, would I have had the hope to take them? Would I have found the strength to undertake therapy for my woes, without someone strong and kind, standing in my corner?
So, if your back is to the wall, and you think taking medication might help, try it. But most psychological problems don't occur from chemical imbalance: most of our psychology is related to how we are in the world. Difficult childhood experiences, traumatic events, failures and regrets, cruel inner critics, miserable families, loneliness, unhappy love relationships--these are the basis of psychological troubles. You can drug yourself all you want, but being sleepy, hyper-alert, or stoned won't fix problems that arise from our relations, past and present, with other people. If you're taking an anti-anxiety pill to help because your workplace is supporting a nasty bully who's making your life miserable, it's therapy that's going to make a difference, not amitriptyline.
Therapy helps to find the source of the pain, and helps you make the decisions about changes you want to make in order to live a more fulfilling life.  Finding a good therapist gives you an immediate resource: someone who will listen to you, who finds your situation important and who wants to help. Research shows that the type of therapy isn't all that important--and there are so many brands these days, it's nearly impossible to sort them all out anyway--what's important is the relationship. If you feel your therapist cares, that matters. Everything else follows from that.
You may find low cost therapy at a local counselling centre: some run on grants, and many use the services of young counsellors who are still in training, who see clients and attend supervision with experienced counsellors. Unless something very specific is going on with you, a less-experienced counsellor can be as helpful as one who's been in practice a long time--remember, you're looking for someone who can listen to you with attention and care.  
Can't get therapy? If you've been added to a year-long waiting list and can't afford private therapy (or can't find a therapist), you still have options. Self-help has never been more available or more useful. World-class psychotherapists give online talks, lead meditations and provide resources and exercises that will help if you will do them. (The hardest part of self-help is actually DOING the things that will help!) Youtube is a stellar source of great self-help. Like anything internet, do consider the source! Look for someone with professional credibility; with an education in therapy, philosophy or analysis; who has written books, given talks. I always recommend Dr. Rick Hanson's Youtube talks and meditations, and if you go to Kristen Neff's website, there are exercises and meditations on self-compassion. These are only two of a multitude of experienced professionals who make it part of their ethos to help for free. There's even an anti-therapist online who I follow: her show is called Crappy Childhood Fairy, and I hope it won't annoy her to know that I think she's a great narrative therapist.
When we're overwhelmed or scared, or too ill to manage even simple things, medication can seem like a simple solution to a hopeless situation. And GPs may pressure you to take medication--its the only thing they can provide, and they want to help you even as they're ushing you briskly out the door. Perhaps if you are experiencing really difficult symptoms, ruling out medication could be a mistake. But if you're concerned, get a second opinion: don't just take the first tablets your GP offers. Look up their uses, dosages and side effects before committing yourself. Consider alternatives.
 You might even consider whether something you're taking as normal is affecting your wellbeing--such as caffeine intake (notorious for causing insomnia, and raising anxiety), or sugar, or alcohol which can both create mood swings. You might experiment with changing your diet, or trying herbal remedies such as St. John;s Wort or the Bach Rescue Remedy for anxiety or depression.  Exercise and music are two "natural" remedies for depression and anxiety. Connecting with good friends is another.
Gardening, believe it or not, is extremely helpful to people experiencing even severe mental illness (and to just about everyone else). There's a new branch of wellness called "social prescribing", where people are put into groups that do gardening, dance, singing, walking in nature, swimming--all of which have been shown to contribute to our happiness and reduce depression and anxiety.
Tablets might seem like a quick fix, but better living isn't really accomplished through chemistry. Connecting, with someone helpful and caring, with resources and practices, with new ways of interacting and with interesting activities, with finding meaning and purpose are the ways we turn our lives from suffering into thriving. 

​The Shared Reverie: A Therapeutic Mystery
Until you become a student of therapy, you may not know there are as many different types of therapies as there are fish in the sea. As a therapist, it becomes overwhelming, as the therapy “market” has expanded wildly over the past decade, with people creating, naming, copyrighting and branding their own versions of what used to be one, and only one thing: Freudian psychoanalysis.
Although I think it’s a grand thing that psychotherapy has grown—there are more ways of helping people than ever, many of them extremely useful— the amount of money being made off teaching and “certifying” branded therapies to therapists and even to clients—makes me angry. One version of couples’ therapy, which I practice and believe in, charges upwards of $7,500 for a training course leading to certification. I can’t resist a free seminar, which is how the marketing begins, with the result that my inbox is flooded with multitudes of offers to study therapies, each with their branded acronym, IFS, DBT, CBT,  RLT, ACT—to name but a few. How did we become so fragmented, a cluster of niches? What do we still hold in common?
The Early Analysts
In the beginning, there were medical doctors who specialised in disorders of the mind; the first psychiatrists. Although there were others before Freud, he was the one who configured, insisted on and actively promoted his theory of the mind and how to work with it. Freud tried to be as rigorously scientific as he could, but he often resorted to circular reasoning, and many of his premises were based on ideas that even he later realised were mistakes. Other ideas were pure genius, still called remarkable more than a century later.
Carl Jung began as one of Freud’s students, then pulled away, creating his own theory and practice, which veered into art, myth and mysticism—aspects of the human condition without which we suffer, grow cold and perish from ennui and meaninglessness. When a therapist refers to “soul”, you’re probably talking to a Jungian.
To this day, there are Freudian analysts who stick to Freud’s original model. As a patient, you may see your analyst 5 days a week. You lie on a couch with your therapist sitting behind you, unseen, taking notes. You are encouraged to speak freely about whatever comes into your mind and your analyst says very little at all, only occasionally offering an interpretation—an analysis of the unconscious motives s/he believes underlie the thoughts and feelings you bring to the session. This analysis often continues for years.
Jungian analysis is more interactive: the analyst more involved and less remote than a Freudian. The working model is more flexible, with patients seeing their analyst perhaps twice a week rather than every day.
As you can imagine, both “old-school” forms of therapy are expensive. You likely won’t find either available through the NHS.
But what works? Research in counselling and therapy continues to find that it’s not the style of therapy that predicts success for clients. It is the relationship between the client and the therapist that helps people change. It is feeling valued, supported, cared about, and (to use a therapeutic term), “held”. Oddly, it is feeling all these things in relation to someone you only see at a specified time and place, in a specified way, in a relationship surrounded by rules and expectations, a relationship utterly different and surprisingly similar to that of a parent, a friend, a lover, a trusted adult.
The time we spend in therapy is centred in ambiguity. As clients, we pay a lot of money to sit in a room and talk to someone, and there’s no guarantee of success, and we don’t know what we’re doing. If we ask our therapist, s/he is likely to say they don’t know what we’re doing, either. But we’re doing it together and somehow, it matters.
If you’re the kind of person who insists on knowing exactly what’s going on (which might be explained as someone who can’t tolerate the anxiety of uncertainty), such a process might send you running. People often tell me, “I tried therapy, but nothing happened, so I quit.” Usually, it was because “nothing happened” in a few sessions, and the connection with the therapist wasn’t forged strongly enough to give the client hope or curiosity enough to continue. Sometimes the experience is felt too intensely even from the beginning, and people leave feeling overwhelmed, before they can get any work done.
So, these are a couple of the reasons people leave therapy before they derive the good from it. But this is all background. I want to say something about what happens in therapy that research has a hard time picking up, that clients tend not to talk about because it’s nearly impossible to nail down, especially if it happens to you; that a few talented therapists have indicated in their writings, but very little, because it might sound like bragging, grandiosity or even delusion. Something that happens occasionally, certainly not in every session, not between every client-therapist pair. Some names define its boundaries, vaguely; attunement is one. Intimacy, understanding, a corrective emotional experience—all may indicate or foreshadow this experience, which for want of another phrase that describes it completely, I will call a shared reverie. It is, I believe, a kind of love.
And in writing this, I find myself stuck, looking for a useful analogy. Let me try…Have you ever wished that you could really know someone from the inside, know what their shoes feel like on their feet, what it’s like to breathe through their lungs and see the colours of the world from the colour of their eyes? Have you ever wanted to be known so completely that you knew you wouldn’t have to explain yourself, or justify anything, that the other person would just know you as you are, and accept you without question, with no idea of measuring, assessing, comparing, judging you?
When we first fall in love, we may experience our beloved as seeing us wholly, accepting us completely; and for our part, we see that person with an open, trusting, adoring eye. They can do no wrong: we can do no wrong. It’s magical, temporary and ultimately mistaken. But in those first moments, it feels marvellous, alive, thrilling. Shared reverie has something of that thrill; perhaps quieter, unfamiliar, unnameable.
It happens, in a moment during therapy, we are so close to the other in mind that the separation between us, the sense of alienation that often pursues us, chasing us into therapy in the first place, suddenly dissolves. We meet each other in that space as Thou, leaving behind roles and ideas about power, leaving the mundane without any expectation or forewarning. It might be likened to a moment (also rare) in intense lovemaking, a brief, utter fusion where we momentarily lose our selves in a much greater mystery. Too temporary, sometimes followed by the deep sadness of loss, when the euphoria has passed and we, perhaps with some bitterness, regain our ordinary selves.
Like that moment, a shared reverie is…momentary, temporary. Perhaps some of its impact has to do with its ephemerality. But unlike the sexual reverie, which can be followed by  turning away or outright betrayal as someone tries to regain a solid sense of self by violently separating from the Other, the therapeutic reverie seems to retain a healing aspect, something that carries into the future. Again, I can’t say what that is, or why.
Some people have experienced fusion through psychedelics. It also might be compared to occasional mystical experiences encountered in deep meditation, although that encounter is between an individual and the cosmos or the divine rather than another human being. But the euphoria, the sense of rightness, and its fleeting nature, are similar.
So, what is it like? I can only point to it: you may have experienced it yourself and recognise it from my inadequate words. That I’m trying to say something about it despite not having the words for it should tell you of its importance. I can’t say it clearly, but I can’t not talk about it. I really want you to know about it because, for all its unknown aspects, it’s Important.
To try…to try.  It’s like flying without intending to. Like falling without any fear of falling. And the presence of the other person, flying or falling with you, that tells you both at some deep inexplicable level that things are all right. Is it possible to feel the presence of magic and a strong sense of security at the same time? The combination has a powerful, lasting effect, although it’s not a necessary condition for therapeutic success, or, I suspect a sufficient one. It may serve to weld us more firmly together in trust and agapeic love. If we’re talking about strengthening the therapeutic relationship, it’s certainly enough to be going on with.
The shared reverie can’t be planned or organised. It can occur in the first meeting or years down the road. You can’t chase it down: it’s an organic event, arising out of no-one knows where or what. There is no particular topic of conversation to follow, and no one therapeutic modality or situation that leads to it. There has to be trust between the therapeutic pair to share the reverie; this I know. Perhaps a mutual willingness to exist, however briefly, in wonder. Beyond that, I have no answers.
That it happens between two people who aren’t physically touching is part of the mystery, although neurological research is beginning to demonstrate how our brains meet other brains in something measurable that’s being called by the scientific name of “co-regulation”.  Our nervous systems, the neurology experts tell us, react to and interact with the nervous systems of others. We can wind each other up and calm each other down. We can connect neurologically through breathing together, through chanting, singing. We can measure the way we affect each other by looking at the brain in scans, at cortisol levels in saliva. Our plot lines rise and fall in tandem, like dancing.
Knowing that there is an empirically-demonstrated energetic/chemical/electrical elucidation behind how two people can share a deep feeling experience doesn’t lessen the magic for me; rather it enhances my sense that we are operating largely by intuition within a universe whose rules we cannot comprehend beyond the topmost, flakiest layer. The idea that we don’t know most things, much less everything, bothers some people: for me, not-understanding feels very safe. It bolsters my curiosity without imprisoning my imagination.
I have experienced it on both sides, as a client and as a therapist. I could go on for another thousand words and probably be no closer to describing the feeling of truly knowing and being known, of dreamlike clarity and timeless understanding. The sense of something completed and whole within the fragments of a life. In the midst of any conversation, on any ordinary day, shared reverie descends from who-knows-where; enfolds us, enlivens us, and deeply connects us in an irreplaceable moment of sheer, unmerited grace. 

It's only in the last 50 years that we've had so many names for the ailments of our psyches. If we go back a couple of hundred years, there were very few diagnoses available: you were sane or you were insane. If you were insane and had money, you might be called "eccentric."
A hundred years ago, if you were a woman, you might be diagnosed, whatever your symptoms, with "hysteria". This was a fascinating condition, in which, the doctors beliueved, the uterus somehow became detached from its regular surroundings and wandered about the body, causing emotional troubles. A woman who was depressed, anxious or upset about something could be showing signs of this important if fictional, condition. Reading and thinking could make it worse. Women were told to rest, prevented from reading and cautioned about the harm that could come from trying to use their minds. 

I think it's important to remember the origins of hysteria when we think about diagnosis today.  We should  take into account trends, knowledge and cultural conditions. In the 1970's and '80s, many unhappy women were medicated with a highly addictive drug (still in use today), called Valium. Valium (aloso called Diazapam)) is a muscle relaxant, a potent sedative. Women who were upset, tearful, anxious, depressed and self-harming were given Valium to "calm them down. " Doctors didn't know what to do with these women, and some of them were annoyingly emotional (often diagnosed with borderline personality). Trauma-informed practitioners would now recognize many of these women as suffering from post-traumatic stress.

Until quite recently, there was no recognition of the effects of unresolved trauma, and no established treatment for it. Battleground fatigue was the only recognised trauma, and soldiers were hospitalised and drugged for it. Sometimes they got better; many times they went home to face a lifetime of nightmares, rages, depression and daytime triggers. Many committed suicide, and many still do. Their families also suffered the consequences of their trauma.

The problem with being a man is that men aren't expected (or allowed)  to experience or express emotions: little boys are taught before they can even read to feel ashamed and unmanly if they feel something. Creative and artistic impulses are stifled; expressions of delight or curiosity shut down. Showing sadness can be met with adult mockery or anger--the only emotion boys and men are expected, even rewarded, for showing in a world that still somehow believes that men and women have divided up the human traits with no overlap. In a culture that enforces gendered stereotypes and behaviours, we are all harmed.

Although women have suffered greatly at the hands of the medical model of mental illness, men have suffered  as well--part of that suffering comes from the fact that the medical establishment too often doesn't recognise men's emotional pain. When they need help, too often it isnt there. When you can't help yourself and no one else will help, shame and despair (labled as "unmanly") can make life seem not worth living. 

These days, the trend is towards diagnosing not only children, but adults, with autism spectrum disorders and ADHD. There is an interesting overlap between a traumatic past and behaviours that look like autism or ADHD. Scattered attention is a common sign of post-traumatic stress, and being unable to get close to people is another sign. Communication problems and a strong need for control are also common. It's important to understand that diagnoses change as culture changes, and as we come to know different things about how the body/mind/brain works. It's not a fixed thing, and we're never going to be 100% right, because we will likely never come to the end of everything there is to know about bodies, brains and minds. 

A doctor who's being asked to consider an autism or ADHD diagnosis may not take the time to discover whether the sufferer also has experienced traumatic events. The effects of trauma may be overlooked, and someone may be given medication intended for ADHD and which will not help resolve trauma---and may even worsen the post-trauma symptoms. With all the attention given to ADHD and autism specrtum disorders in the media, patients may appear in front of the doctor asking for confirmation of what they think they're experiencing, without having considered other possibilities. A good diagnosis doesn't just ask, "what are the symptoms?" It also asks, "are there things going on that don't fit into those symptoms? Could this be something else?" A good diagnosis doesn't just run down a checklist: it also should rule things out.

For example, if someone comes to me saying they're anxious and they don't know why, the not knowing why is a big clue. They might say there's nothing in their life that shold be creating anxiety, yet there it is. First, I want to know what they mean by anxiety. What does it feel like, how does it manifest? Do we have the same understanding of anxiety? Sometimes people use a word without really knowing what it means. So, first we agree on terms and describe the symptoms, and when, where and how they manifest (and around whom).

Usually, when people are anxious, they have an idea of what might be behind it. If they don't, I want to start by ruling out the possibility that it's a chemical, not a psychological, problem. I ask about caffeine intake, about sugar. I ask when the anxiety started and has anything else been happening-headaches for example. If someone tells me they're anxious and they've been drinking 6 cups of coffee a day, I'm going to recommend they start by reducing their coffee. If you're wound up on caffeine, all the therapy in the world isn't going to help your anxiety. Forget therapy; switch to decaf!

Sometimes a set of symptoms points to a potential physical problem. A good therapist, when faced by symptoms and a client who has no idea why they're there, will ask the patient to see a physician and rule out the possibility of a physical ailment. A racing heart can be a symptom of anxiety, but it might be a heart problem. 

Many times, anxiety can be eased by looking at lifestyle choices. If you watch the news every night before bed and then you can't sleep, please stop doing that. No, really--the adrenalin and cortisol that course through your poor body when you see and hear about war, violence, injustice, economics--the fear, anger and frustration that attends every thinking person who watches the news, is bad for your entire body. And make no mistake-- your body is intimately connected to your mind. Our chemistry, the chemicals that move through our body also influence the workings of our brains, which exist in close relationship to our minds. If you're anxious, if your blood pressure is high, if you have bad dreams, give up watching the news for a month and see what happens. If you can't give up the news, therapy may help you find out what's behind the feeling that keeps you doing something that harms you.

There's so much to write about diagnoses, I barely know where to start. Maybe I'll just make a bulleted list. But I want you to know this. A diagnosis of a mental health condition doesn't mean it's necessarily  lifelong. I meet a lot of people who talk about "my mental health" as though having once had a major bout of depression, or even years of anxiety, means they'll never recover; that they'll always be damaged somehow, or fragile. It's not true. You can be diagnosed with all sorts of mental health conditions that can improve and disappear, leaving you as healthy as anyone else. You can change, and walk away from a diagnosis. (There are very few conditions that tend not to change, that require ongoing treatment, such as bipolar disorder--there are a few, but not many.)

It takes so little to tip us off the balance beam. Think about it this way: there's a really easy way to make someone psychotic: don't let them sleep for a couple of days. That's all it takes to turn a perfectly sane (umm, if anyone could be said to be perfectly sane!) person into someone who doesn't know where they are, what day it is, or what's going on.  Their emotions are all over the map. But they don't stay insane--once they get some sleep, their mental health is restored. We are that delicate, and that resilient.

One more thing: if you know someone who has been diagnosed with a mental "illness", don't think they're all that different from you. We are all one bad chemical, one traumatic event, one disappointing love affair, one sleepless night on a flight to Thailand, away from "crazy". In fact, a great contemporary philosopher named Alain de Botton says that on a first date, we should ask each other, "How are you crazy?" and if the other person says, "I'm not!" run away briskly, because either they're totally unaware, or they're lying.

​When someone has a serious mental health condition, it's worsened by being ignored or treated with suspicion, or fear, or being patronized by other people. The philosophers call it being "othered": as in, one person thinks the other is somehow less human than they are. It's a horribly isolating thing, to be othered.

Being socially isolated is a common problem for people who experience mental illness, Loneliness is one of the worst crazy-making life conditions, and it's one that people with mental health conditions may endure simply because other people are fearful. The vast majority of people with even very serious mental illnesses are utterly harmless: they might act strange sometimes, (and often not!)  but they're not dangerous. What is dangerous is being treated like you're less than human by people who are afraid and who don't know any better. So if you know someone whose mental health is currently in a fragile state, you don't have to go to extremes to help: just be kind. Kindness is balm to the soul, not just for those who are fragile at this moment, but for all of us. 

The Bullet Points
1. Diagnoses are based on on time, place and culture. They change as times change.
2. Diagnoses should not only match symptoms,  but rule out other possible conditions
3. Physical symptoms can look like a mental health symptoms (and vice versa)
4. A diagnosis is rarely a lifelong issue
5. We're all one bad chemical, one bad experience, one sleepless night away from a mental health problem
6. Most mental health problems are fixable
7. We shouldn't think of people with mental health problems as different from us: they're not
8. Loneliness creates or contributes to bad mental health
9. Our bodies, brains and minds are interconnected and affect each other
9. Giving and receiving kindness treats many of life's ills; physical, mental and spiritual

If you're feeling fragile, take heart. Sometimes just talking over your problems with someone who's really listening can make all the difference. Don't be afraid to each out, and if you don't find help right away, keep on reaching out until you connect with a trustworthy someone who wants to help. They don't have to be a "helping professional": they might be a friend or acquaintence, a work colleague, your doctor, your hairdresser. Don't let pride stop you and throw away the unhelpful notion that we're supposed to be able to handle life's slings and arrows on our own. We are built for connection: we need each other. And the friend you reach out to today will one day need you to listen to them. We are made to help each other: it's that simple.

Life is hard. But living from that notion makes it harder. Unfortunately, families, schools and workplaces try to prepare us for hard life  by making it hard when it doesn’t even have to be.
The fact is, much of what’s done to us that makes life hard is done by other people. And, once we’ve been thoroughly taught about life’s difficulty, we learn to do it to ourselves. We drive ourselves hard, don’t rest enough, feel guilty when we “do nothing”. Our society makes it a secular sin to be anything less than 100% “productive”, and in fact we all know we can’t even come close to that insane expectation. But we also believe that all around us, other people are more productive, always busy doing important things. They’re also smarter, faster and better-looking. We’re all, nearly every one of us, the loser in the room. That’s the mistaken notion that keeps people seeing the world as a war to be won, working as hard as we can at wrecking our lives, to be “successful”. So many people are ashamed because they think they’re not good enough. Anytime they feel threatened, they come out fighting, or run and hide, or both.
So we pretend to be strong and tough; that we don’t feel soft feelings. Anger and aggression scare off other people, so we think we’ll be safer. We pretend to be busy when we’re actually collapsed on the couch or hiding under the duvet, terrified of the next meeting, the grant proposal, the project we can’t imagine cramming into our already bursting schedules. Pretend we don’t need other people, even when we’re desperate for help and faced with things we really can’t do alone.
From our hiding place under the bed, we keep others far enough away so they can’t see that we’re pretending. But, because by nature we need belonging, we need care and affection and trust with others, we suffer when others stay away. We make life much, much harder than it really is.
The word ‘vulnerability’ means the potential to be wounded. The problem is, you can’t be close to people, you can’t get  belonging, care, affection and trust without showing your vulnerability. Everyone is vulnerable, but to get close to others, you have to show them your softer feelings, the places where you can be hurt. And if the world has hurt you quite a lot, that’s too  scary. Relationships become power struggles rather than what they should be: sources of comfort, support, nourishment.
If you’ve been taught (as most have) that vulnerability is a weakness, here’s a thought: it takes huge courage to be vulnerable in this hard life. It’s the same courage that lets us fight what’s wrong and be there for others who need us. Vulnerability and caring are deeply related. Courage and vulnerability go hand-in-hand: they are the hallmarks of good human beings and of effective leaders.
That’s what therapy is for. You learn what it feels like to be safe with someone else, to be honest and wounded and scared and human, with another human. Therapy helps you take off your mental armour and rest. In coming to understand our vulnerability and fear, oddly, we find ourselves with more courage. It’s a risk, being human, and it takes strength to admit when we’re scared, when we’ve been wrong, when we need help. That strength draws people near, inspires them and creates loyalty and trust. We risk being open in exchange for becoming close.
In my experience as a therapist and a client, the reward is worth the risk. 

We've all had people in our lives we call friends, and maybe who are friends, who meet the criterion of being supprtive and kind and truthful and there for us, and for whom we try to be all those things. Friendship of all relationships relies on mutual and reciprocal acts of generosity and affection. Stalwartness, steadiness are also part of the package. We like to think friendship, true friendship will last forever, but in the nature of things, it may not. People change, circumstances can unstick strong alliances. Misunderstandings can snowball into interpersonal tragedies. Friendships, like everything else in nature, often die.

Then there is "friendship". You know when you introduce the person to someone else as "my friend so-and-so" that the "so-and-so" may be more honest than the "my friend" part. These are the people who claim a friendship, who enter your life and basically screw it up. Who make you feel bad, even while protesting loyalty and calling you darling. Who trick you, manipulate you into doing things you don't want to do, and make you feel like you're a horrible person when you don't fall in with their nefarious schemes. The kind of person who invites you to Christmas dinner, then asks you to wash up all the pots and pans, and the glasses and gilded plates that can't go in the dishwasher. And doesn't even stick around to talk to you while you work. 

The word "frenemy" has been attributed to the columnist Walter Winchell, who used it in 1953 to describe th relationship between the USSR and the US. Myself, I only heard it around the year 2000, We've all had so-called friends who tell us when we look awful, who try to steal our lovers, who offer us things then demand much more in return than those things were ever worth. Who, in short, use us to boster their egos, their social status, to babysit their kids and dogs, to fulfill their narcissistic needs. I think you've got the picture--we are describing the anti-friend.

We tend to tolerate frenemies when our self-esteem has hit an alltime low and we can't imagine being friends with someone we can trust; or when the frenemy is so toxic or vengeful that ending the relationship will cause more destruction to our lives than seems worth the risk of breaking off the acquaintence. But it's unhealthy to maintain a frenemyship: at the very least, it further degrades our self-worth and creates stress.

What to do?
The main objective is to take the person off your friend list. There are two primary ways to effect the removal of a frenemy. You can do it in a slow fade, recommended for retaliatory types. Little by little, stop attending events with this person, be busy when they call, and have something else planned when they ask you around to, say, help them paint their kitchen. This strategy takes some duplicity and you may feel like a rat for being dishonest, but if all's fair in love and war, all is also fair when ridding yourself of someone who's happy to sacrifice your wellbeing for their momentary aims. 

The second way to drop a frenemy is like ripping off a bandaid. You tell them how you really feel about their latest egregious act, tell them this is their last strike, and that they're out. Go ahead, be brutal: if your frenemy respected kindness, they wouldn't be a frenemy. Use the language they understand, don't accept stupid excuses or get caught up in having to defend yourself against charges of being unreasonable, unfair or unkind. Those are all manipulative devices to try and get you back on the hook in a one-down position. 

(Here's a hint: Your real friends are never interested in putting you in a one-down position. They actually like it when you feel good. )

About that low self-esteem thing. If it feels like most of your friends are in fact not friends, getting them off your friend list will clear spaee for people who really want to be friends. Real friendship is the basis for a happy life. If you need a refresher on what friendship can be, Khalil Gibran said it more beautifully than anyone before or since.

And a youth said, Speak to us of Friendship.
    And he answered, saying:
    Your friend is your needs answered.
    He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
    And he is your board and your fireside.
    For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
    When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”
    And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
    For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
    When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
    For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
    And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
    For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery us not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.
    And let your best be for your friend.
    If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
    For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
    Seek him always with hours to live.
    For it is his to fill your need but not your emptiness.
    And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
    For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.
From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). 

​

The Power of Apology
By
Lori Covington
Something about the way we are taught to live makes us terribly unhappy: it's the notion that whatever we do should be "perfect".  Although we all know in our hearts that we're highly imperfect, we also learn early on to settle for second-best; a hotly-defended pretense of perfection. We learn as children to deny our mistakes, to hide them, to blame others, to distract, to lie. The behaviors that outrage us now, the lies of politicians, the greed of corporations, are spectacular examples of what every 2-year-old believes: if I close my eyes, you can't see me.
Of course, most of us know when we’ve done wrong. The outcome of not admitting our mistakes is stress in the body and spirit. Lie detectors don't find the lie, but the body's terror-stricken response to the lie. When we pretend perfection, we cause ourselves physical and metaphysical harm. When we make it normal to avoid apology and restitution, we institutionalize that harm: it appears everywhere, causing widespread damage.
But there is a remedy, as simple as it is seemingly difficult. The great Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh has lectured and written about what he calls mantras for loving. These simple phrases can restore harmony between people, can bring peace into families and communities. I'm going to share these ideas with you because knowing them, using them, teaching them to your family, will simply make your life happier.
"I'm sorry."
"I made a mistake."
"How can I make it right?"
See how simple they are? A child could say them! So, why is it so hard for us to admit our mistakes, apologize and make amends?
It's not, really. It's just that we've been taught that admitting mistakes is a weakness. And unfortunately, some people believe it's easier to go on making mistakes than it is to do things right. But we also instinctively know that the people we run to when we're in trouble are the ones so strong that they take responsibility for their actions, especially when they've done something wrong. Whatever the current culture celebrates or denigrates, we know integrity in our very souls, and when we find it, we honor it.
When people are dying, they don’t regret not having worked hard enough or not being richer. They regret not having loved others well enough. And love isn't just a feeling: it's a way of behaving. Thich Nhat Hanh (his students call him Thay), says that if your love makes someone cry, makes you cry, it's not true love. True love seeks to make happiness. It takes action.
Thay  teaches that true apology and making amends are absolutely vital to loving others. To love someone, you have to be able to trust that they will do what's right. That they'll show up for you; they will be fair.  That when they screw up, they'll say so and try to fix it. And crucially, we have to be able to trust ourselves to do that, too.
So Thay has taught what he calls "mantras"; simple phrases to help us communicate with those we care for. The mantras are also very powerful when you use them with yourself. With denial and deception come guilt and self-loathing. Making space for the truth detoxifies and builds real strength. You can have the following conversation with yourself or with someone else. Take a deep breath and smile: you are making love happen.
I know I screwed up when I made that decision and it's caused pain. I was afraid, so I chose what looked like an easy option over the right one. I am sorry.
Well, yes, it did make a mess, but it's done now and I see you did the best you could at the time. In hindsight, you could have done better--but who has hindsight! So I'm letting you off the hook. I forgive you.
What can I do to make amends?
Don't let your fear cause you to make this mistake again. Sit with the fear, get help from your friends, don't budge until you know you can make the right choice next time. 
Ok, I promise, I will be more careful --and less reactionary.
It won't be easy...
I know! But it'll be worth it.
​When you're not used to apologizing, it's hard! But like any exercise, it gets easier with practice. And the rewards are huge: has anyone ever hurt you, apologized and then tried to make it up to you? Didn't that feel good, to have your hurt acknowledged, to know the other person wanted to make it right with you?
Isn't a real apology the most basic form of human justice? can you imagine what life might feel like if the  people who've wronged you engaged these  mantras with loving, corrective intent? Can you see how these simple acts are powerful tools for peace?
​There's a reason most religions have some aspect of confession. It's not to humiliate us, it's to free us. Breaking chains of the deception and delusion of perfection, we can be ourselves. We learn that people will love (trust) us more easily and that we can love them better when we're not hiding behind denial of our most basic human trait: the ability to really mess things up! The mantras let us access other traits both human and divine: our great capacity for​ making things right, and for forgiving ourselves and each other.
So, next time you break a soap dish-- or someone's heart--don't run away and hide. Don't point fingers or make excuses or lie. Apologize and try to make amends. Yes, you're taking a chance. Maybe you can't make amends, beyond saying you're sorry. Do what you can.
Maybe the other person isn't capable of forgiving (it may come much later than you'd hope). You may even be attacked for re-opening an old wound. It may not feel good, and it’s painful saying, "I was wrong". But it’s painful at a superficial level--the level of the fragile ego we build to try to protect the true self. Funnily enough, the ego is easily injured: the more we try to bolster it, the more it hurts, the weaker it becomes. Acting from the true self, from inside that wobbly scaffolding of the false self, is the only way to ease that egoic pain.
Your apology could be rejected. It doesn't matter. It still feels right, being as courageous as a person can be. Child or adult, man or woman, there is no one stronger than someone who can say these words and follow them up:
"I messed up. I'm so sorry I hurt you"
"What can I do to make it right?"
 
It's that simple. It's that hard.
You can do it.
 ​