Talking Through Therapies
“Approximately 1 in 4 people in the UK will experience a mental health problem each year ” (Mind, the mental health charity)
If you tell anyone you’re experiencing anxiety, you are likely to be flooded by a veritable tidal wave of sympathy, reassurances, and advice. Who isn’t worried to the point of needing help these days? I’m more than willing to believe that every fourth person I meet is swimming in their own sea of problems. But the ubiquity of anxiety and related mental health problems has led to a new issue.
When a quarter of all people seem to be in the same boat, there necessarily develops a whole culture of services and personnel wanting to rush to the rescue of us poor sufferers. It becomes impossible to distinguish between the genuine professionals and the charlatans. There are so many self-help books claiming to be able to help you regain inner peace that choosing one which may actually be helpful becomes, thoroughly counterproductively, a source of worry in itself. The waiting lists for CBT which is available on the NHS have become so long that you’re likely to have died of natural causes before you can even have an initial consultation.
Of course, even if you are one of the lucky few who finally manages to tear their way through and gain access to an NHS-provided or private ‘talking therapy’, an umbrella term which covers methods such as CBT and mindfulness, the therapy you receive is likely to be delivered by an exhausted or indifferent counsellor, who presumes you will fit ideally into their mould of a mental health patient, and fires their own ideas at you until you wearily concede that you feel much better. That was always my experience anyway, and after spending several years on the Mental Health Hamster Wheel of strictly followed protocols, generic platitudes and one-size-fits-all treatments, I decided to try something a little different.
In a Freudian-style armchair
So, I found myself on the first sunny morning of February navigating my way to Harley Street, historic home of medical excellence. I was on my way to see Christopher Paul Jones, otherwise known as ‘The Breakthrough Expert’. Due to my natural scepticism, I hadn’t done any research into his methods, deciding that the only way I would buy into his ideas was if I came completely unprejudiced by any internet reading I had done. In a fantastically bright room at the top of a suitably imposing staircase, I settled myself into a Freudian-style armchair, and prepared to be unimpressed, as I usually am. I had come, ostensibly, to have my fear of flying cured – The Breakthrough Expert is well known for providing almost impossibly fast relief from specific phobias such as flying, spiders, and lifts. I had decided to let this be the focus of our session, not wanting to throw my whole cocktail of phobias and anxieties all over someone who only had an hour to work with me.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when a mere fifteen minutes later, Chris fixed me with an intent stare, and asked: “which medication is it you’re taking for your anxiety?” I had been talking with great dedication only about my fear of flying, and had completely failed to mention anxiety or medication of any sort. I fixed the man sitting opposite me with a beady stare, and demanded to know how he had come to his conclusion. “Surely”, I wheedled, “you can’t tell just by looking at me”. Of course, he couldn’t. “I can tell by the things you’re told me, and the way you’ve said them”. From that moment on, I was completely under his spell. It was clear to me that, whatever else he might be, Christopher Jones was a supremely intuitive people-reader, something which I had felt was severely lacking in any other therapist or doctor I had seen.
As anyone who’s ever sat in that slightly uncomfortable position opposite a therapist, counsellor, GP, psychiatrist or other breed of ‘curer’ will tell you – the first step towards building any kind of confidence in the person whom you hope will provide you with a magic cure to your problems is simply believing that they understand what on earth the problem is. Christopher Paul Jones was the first person to really fill me with this confidence. After that first ‘eureka’ moment, I decided to trust whatever obscure treatment he thought fit to thrust at me.
Confession of a converted cynic
Chris’s methods are as unconventional as the man himself. Curled over in a chair which feels much too small for his larger-than-life person, he eschews the more traditional protocol of CBT in favour of a whole cocktail of techniques, which lead to the name of his method – The Integrated Change System. Of course, there are still elements of CBT there, but there is also clinical hypnotherapy, eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing (which involves blending the emotional and logical halves of your brain until they essentially get confused and let go of the worry), timeline techniques, and positive associations. Every session is uniquely tailored to the person on the metaphorical couch (it’s actually a particularly cosy recliner) – if a particular method seems to be working well, then more time is spent on that, if something clearly doesn’t work it is quickly ditched.
I had never expected to be told to imagine my ‘anxiety voice’ as that of Donald Duck – and I absolutely loved it. I agree wholeheartedly with Chris’ notion that you can’t be afraid of the ridiculous. Making your fears ludicrous and laughable really does help to get rid of them. In fact, the whole approach of throwing humour at a problem to make it go away was one which hugely appealed to me, and I was overjoyed to find a professional who supported and embraced my own way of looking at my anxieties with an element of entertainment.
If you can’t even imagine having a cheerful therapy session, fear not (always easier said than done, I know). Much as with his methods, Chris tailors his whole approach towards the person with him. There was a box of tissues on the table next to me, which had been introduced to me at the beginning of the session with an understanding: “It’s fine to cry – most people do, you know”. The entire mood of our therapy could have been in direct opposition to the way it was, it all depended on me, and the subliminal guidance I gave.
About halfway through our time, the idea of yoga was mentioned. Of course it was. Involuntarily, I executed my well-practised eye roll which I always whip out at the barest mention of third wave coping strategies. “I didn’t think you’d like that”, came the genial guffaw, “You’re a bit of a cynic, aren’t you?” Not any more, Chris, not any more…
