Mindfulness philosophy tells us that our thoughts and emotions are simply phenomena that arise in our bodies and minds: they are not us.
Those of us who suffer from depression and anxiety tend to enter cycles of over-thinking. The mind wanders and engages in self-focused rumination that feeds negative emotions, worsening mood.
While ruminating, we think about the causes and consequences of our depression; we reflect on mistakes we’ve made in the past, we dwell on our perceived personal faults, and we speculate about how we’ll fare negatively in the future.
This kind of rumination becomes a scratch-itch cycle that causes us to feel worse.
However, learning to engage the contents of self-focussed mind-wandering as a non-judgmental observer may be the key to stopping this cycle.
Those who are able to step back and become aware of awareness or think about thoughts, as opposed to getting lost in them, tend to have better control over their thought processes as a whole, and thus their emotions. Mindfulness involves taking a non-judgmental, curious stance about the contents of the mind, as an impartial witness.
Studies show that mindfulness, or taking this non-judgmental, curious stance, can change brain areas associated with rumination, and emotional regulation.
This fall I took a course to obtain a facilitator certificate for Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), an evidence-based 8-week program that aims to treat depression and anxiety through imparting mindfulness skills. Because of the growing evidence base on the benefits of mindfulness for stress and mental health, the facilitator program attracts many medical professionals.
One of the course participants, a psychiatrist, didn’t like me. I noticed her frowning in my direction every time I spoke. She deliberately avoided and ignored me, talking to everyone else in the course but me.
As the only naturopathic doctor in the group, the other participants showed some curiosity towards my field. When I answered their questions, the psychiatrist’s face seemed to twist into a subtle expression of disgust and disapproval.
She thought I was a quack, a hack; I didn’t have enough training. She assumed I wasn’t qualified enough to provide care to those who suffer from mental health concerns. I could feel her judging energy from across the room every time I lifted my hand to answer a question, or make a comment. Her deploring gaze scrutinized my every move.
I was a naturopathic doctor and she, a psychiatrist. We had emerged from different worlds, philosophies, and backgrounds—we were from incompatible ends of the mental health professional spectrum. Of course she didn’t approve of me: it was only to be expected.
We were spending all day meditating, and this is the story my mind had decided to write.
At the end of day 3 of the course, with days of evidence selectively compiled to support my story about this disapproving psychiatrist’s opinion of me, I left class to head for the bus stop. Waiting for the same bus was no one other than my nemesis.
Great, I thought. I smiled at her, stiffly.
She smiled at me.
“Talia, right?” She asked.
I nodded: yes, Talia.
“You’re the naturopath, right?” She inquired, brows kneaded together in a frown.
I nodded again, bracing myself. Are we really going to do this here?
But then, time-space cracked and split open, revealing an alternate universe to the one in my own head. Her face melted into a warm grin, “Oh, I love naturopaths!” She exclaimed warmly.
She went on to describe her wonderful encounters with the members of my profession who had attended to the various personal health concerns she’d faced.
“I’m so interested in holistic health for managing mental health concerns,” She said, before leaning in a bit, conspiratorially, and adding in hushed tones, “You know, psychiatry doesn’t work.”
I stood there, dumbfounded.
Her particular opinions about psychiatry aside: not only was the entire story I’d written and held onto for the past few days wrong, it was way wrong. I had fabricated an entire story in my head, corroborated by what I had been convinced was real evidence. The realization of how avidly I’d bought into this story, as if it were simple fact, was earth-shattering.
My story, had just been that: a story, conjured up by thoughts. These thoughts bore no relationship to reality at all, no matter how convincingly they had presented themselves.
It rare to have the opportunity to experience our mental constructs and biases topple so dramatically. The mind has a tendency to rationalize away any evidence contrary to our beliefs—”Well, I only passed because I got lucky”, or “The test was easy”, or “She said she liked my hair—liar”.
Very few of us entertain the idea that our thoughts and emotions don’t represent our ultimate reality.
According to Mindfulness Theory it helps to think of our minds as movie screens and our thoughts, emotions, and body sensations as contents of the movie. We can watch the action, identify with the characters, and follow the plot with invested interest. The movie can inspire thoughts and emotions within us, both positive and negative. The movie can grip us; we might lose ourselves in the drama, forgetting that we are mere witnesses to it.
It can help to remember that we are not the movie. Sometimes it’s helpful to remember that we’re not even acting in the movie.
No matter how deeply the film may move us, we can always take the stance of movie-going witness. We can take various perspectives in relation to the drama on screen. We can immerse ourselves in the drama, losing our sense of self completely. We can remember that we are audience members, enjoying a film. We can ignore the movie altogether and laugh to a friend sitting beside us. We can be aware of the contents of the movie theatre, the people sitting around and behind us, or the sticky floor under our feet. We can even leave the theatre, which we will certainly do once the credits roll—it’s just a movie after all, a distraction from the reality of our lives.
In the way that we approach the contents on a movie screen, we can take various stances towards the contents of our minds.
Meta-awareness is the act of remembering that we are movie watchers—the act of becoming aware of awareness itself. When we practice meta-awareness, we take a non-judgmental view of our thoughts and emotions, watching them arise in our bodies and minds like the drama in a movie arises onscreen.
We can easily identify with the tens of thousands of thoughts that appear on the movie screens of our lives. We may be convinced that we’re unloveable, that we’re failures, or that life is hopeless, simply because these particular thoughts have appeared in our mind’s screen. We can also identify with positive thoughts, such as the idea that we’re excellent swimmers, or good fathers.
Our thoughts may reflect reality—we may have the thought that if we step into a pool of water our feel will get wet—but simply having a thought does not create reality itself.
While taking the bus that day, I realized that I had unwittingly cast my psychiatric colleague as the guest-star of People Who Are Judging Me, an episode in Unloveable: The Series, which is a piece of entertaining fiction that my mind has written, directed, produced, and cast me as the lead in. I often forget that I’m simply an audience member watching the movie of my mind’s creation—this movie is not necessarily the truth about my life.
Research has identified a network in the brain called the Default Mode Network (DMN), that connects the lower brain areas, like the amygdala and hippocampus, with higher brain centres in the prefrontal cortex. The DMN is active when our minds are wandering and is particularly active when those with depression are ruminating and engaging in narrative self-referencing: or attributing one’s self as the cause of (negative) events in one’s life—for example, interpreting an expression on someone’s face to be a look of disgust and assuming it’s because they disapprove of your profession.
Meditation, particularly practicing meta-awareness, can produce shifts in the DMN that decrease rumination. Practicing meta-awareness allows us to rescue our identities from the tyranny of thought. We watch and detach from thought, watching them rise and fall in the mind without clinging to them. By becoming aware of our thoughts and emotions and taking a curious attitude towards them, we can break the cycle of rumination, thereby supporting our mental health. Observing thoughts, rather than becoming lost in their drama, allows us to feel and behave independently of them.
For example, simply having the thought, “I’ll always be alone,” doesn’t have to produce a negative emotion, if I recognize it as just a thought.
We might reframe the thought “She hates me” to be: “I just had a thought that this person hates me. It’s just a thought that I have no way of knowing for certain is true. I will smile warmly at her anyways. I might be completely wrong.”
Or, we can do nothing, waiting until the thought “She hates me” passes through the screen of our minds.
We can turn off this particular movie, and put on a new one. After all, we can’t stop the flow of thoughts: there will always be others to take their place.
Lesson learned: I am not my thoughts.
And: some psychiatrists are way more hippy than I am.
