Explainer

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Holidays/vacations

Mental Health

Psychology

Time

12 July 2024

7 min read

How to get the best time out of your downtime

The joys and perils of taking time out for summer holidays.

Roger Bretherton

Roger Bretherton is Associate Professor of Psychology, at the University of Lincoln. He is a UK accredited Clinical Psychologist.

A pair of sunglasses beside a swimming pool.

Jakob Owens on Unsplash.

For the first few days of any summer holiday there seems to be something wrong with my brain. Having looked forward for months to the moment when I can finally down tools and get some rest, having yearned for weeks to be free of the relentless schedule of emails and meetings, the moment finally arrives and I, well… hate it. I’ve wanted to stop for ages and then when I get the chance, I don’t want to. The flywheel momentum of the to-do list somehow carries over into the holiday and turns the first few days into an obsessive nightmare of drivenness.

This usually manifests in the agitation of wanting to rest while being unable to do so. My schedule says stop but my mind hasn’t got the memo. Instead of gently sculling across the pool, I’m swimming time trials through an obstacle course of inflatable beds and dayglo sea creatures. My family is quick to remind me that the languid currents of the pool were designed for relaxation, not for achieving a personal best. ‘It’s called the lazy river, Dad, not Verstappen at the Nürburgring.’ It makes me laugh, but it doesn’t make me stop. Nor does it stop them shouting things like ‘He’s taking the apex’, and ‘Dad’s got DRS’ from their sun loungers every time I sluice past.

In the old days, psychiatrists used to call it the Sunday Neurosis, the mild state of agitated low mood that afflicted people on their day off. The inescapable feeling that we should be doing something on days when there is nothing to do. The realisation that we’re not quite sure who we are when we are freed from the daily demands we can easily resent. I don’t know what you have planned for the summer- a beach party in the Bahamas or an Airbnb in Bridlington or the classic post-Covid staycation- but if you’re planning to take a break of any kind there are a few things you should perhaps keep in mind to make the best of it.

If we must work full throttle to the final hour – we may have to accept that we’ll spend the first few days on holiday getting used to being on holiday.

First. Slow down slowly.

We have a tendency to think that life can change at the speed of thought. Just because our diaries say holiday, doesn’t mean that our bodies are working to the same schedule. The autonomic nervous system that governs our state of physiological arousal largely operates automatically. It isn’t synched to our Outlook calendar and can’t deliver relaxation on demand, no matter how much we would like it to. Psychotherapist Deb Dana likens changing our state of physiological arousal to taking a lift down a few floors. It takes time to move from a highly active state, to a more relaxed and connected way of being. It doesn’t happen at the flick of a switch and we only agitate ourselves more thinking it should. She says we should befriend our nervous system. Instead of impatiently asking ourselves why we aren’t more relaxed, we should simply ask whether we need to be this agitated right now. And if we don’t, accept that it may take us some time to adapt to a less demanding environment.

When it comes to holidays, this suggests we should allow ourselves some time to acclimatise. Our bodies don’t automatically relax the moment they hit the beach, or hike the mountains, or lie under canvas - they need some time. We can do this before the holiday starts, by slowly decelerating as time off approaches. Like a car approaching a junction, if we want to stop smoothly, we might want to hit the brakes long before we reach the stop sign. And if we can’t do that – if we must work full throttle to the final hour – we may have to accept that we’ll spend the first few days on holiday getting used to being on holiday. It may not make us a pleasure to be with, but we can at least understand that it’s just how our bodies work. We are not droids, there isn’t an off switch on the back of our heads.

On holiday, we can take time to savour the experience of living- to be in our bodies, not just use them.

Second, get into your body (and out of your mind).

There’s a reason people spend so much time on holiday exercising their bodies: surfing, climbing, walking, riding. And weird stuff too, that you’d never dream of doing at home. One time in Normandy we booked a hand-pumped locomotive and huffed/puffed our way up and down a railway line for an afternoon. If I didn’t have the blisters to prove it, I’d think I’d dreamed that. Why do we do these things? Because it feels good to be aware of our bodies. Even my laps around the lazy river had a certain logic to them.

Many of us spend most of our time in disembodied thought. We can sometimes feel like the involuntary participants in a workplace time and motion study, in which worth is measured by output. It doesn’t matter where you work – home, school, office, a boat, the woods – sooner or later a spreadsheet will find you. You can run, but you cannot hide your data. And the impact this has on us is that we tend to be more aware of whether we have hit our targets than we are of the toll these targets take on our bodily wellbeing. Just recently I was asked to support a management team going through a stressful restructuring. One guy claimed he didn’t feel the stress of it- he just got on with the job. But when I sympathetically suggested he might be paying for it with his body, the litany of physical ailments he produced sounded like the list of side effects in a 1980s pharmaceutical commercial. He didn’t think he was stressed, but his body kept the score.

Let’s face it, going on holiday itself is stressful. It’s ranked 42 on the Holmes-Rahe Life Stress Inventory, just above ‘minor violations of the law’. Apparently packing for Marbella is more stressful than being pulled over by the cops. But it’s worth it if it creates a space in which we can de-stress, a space in which we can remember that we have a body, a body that needs to be looked after. Of all the benefits of bodily awareness – the positive sense of how our body feels, not the crippling consciousness of how it looks – perhaps the greatest is its capacity to turn off the hyperactive judgement of our minds. On holiday, we can take time to savour the experience of living- to be in our bodies, not just use them.

If we are defined by our output, who do we become when our output drops to zero?

Third. Make time to connect.

What happens when we slow down and learn to live in our bodies again? We become open to connection: socially, emotionally, even spiritually. Back to Deb Dana. She notes that when we take that slow elevator down from the souped-up state of busyness to a more relaxed and open state of mind, we activate the ventral vagal nervous system. She calls it our ‘home away from home’- which seems especially apt for being on holiday. In this state we are happier to be seen by others and therefore to be in relationship with them. Whether it’s a conversation while walking, or an evening card-game, or a meal together, all of them offer a chance for us to dwell in our home away from home in connection with others.

One of the things that can keep us so obsessively busy, is that we are not always sure who we would be if we stopped. We’re not certain we have a right to exist when we’re not being productive. If we are defined by our output, who do we become when our output drops to zero? This is why for thousands of years the practice of rest has been enshrined in spiritual practices. Without space to detach ourselves from the hectic pace of life we will inevitably confuse who we are with what we do. The Judeo-Christian tradition called it sabbath, not just a day of rest, but a way of being in which there is nothing left to prove. Holidays can offer us that opportunity, if we are willing to take it. Because after all what do we call someone who becomes more relaxed and embodied and connected? I think: more human.

Explainer

Assisted dying

Comment

22 October 2024

9 min read

Assisted dying's language points to all our futures

Translating ‘lethal injection’ from Dutch releases the strange power of words.

Henna Cundill

Henna is a researcher with the Centre for Autism and Theology at the University of Aberdeen.

A vial and syringe lie on a blue backdrop.

Markus Spiske on Unsplash.

In the coming weeks and months, MPs at Westminster will debate a draft bill which proposes a change in the law with regards to assisted dying in the UK. They will scrutinise every word of that bill. Language matters.

Reading the coverage, with a particular interest in how such changes to the law have been operationalised in other countries, I was struck to discover that the term in Dutch for dying by means of a fatal injection of drugs is “de verlossende injectie.” This, when put through the rather clunky hands of Google translate, comes out literally as either “the redeeming injection” or “the releasing injection.” Of course, in English the term in more common parlance is “lethal injection”, which at first glance seems to carry neither of the possible Dutch meanings. But read on, and you will find out (as I did) that sometimes our words mean much more than we realise.

Writing for Seen & Unseen readers, I explained a quirk of the brain that tricked them into thinking that the word car meant bicycle. Such is the mysterious world of neuroplasticity, but such also is the mysterious world of spoken language, where certain combinations of orally produced ‘sounds’ are designated to be ‘words’ which are assumed to be indicators of ‘meaning’. Such meanings are slippery things.

This slipperiness has long been a preoccupation for philosophers of language. How do words come to indicate or delineate particular things? How come words can change their meanings? How is it that, if a friend tells you that they got hammered on Friday night, you instinctively know it had nothing to do with street violence or DIY? Why is it that in the eighteenth century it was a compliment to be called ‘silly’, but now it is an insult?

Some words are so pregnant with possible meaning, they almost cease to have a meaning. What does “God” mean when you hear someone shout “Oh my God!”? Probably nothing at all, or very little. It is just a sound, surely? And yet no other sound has ever succeeded in fully replacing it. We are using the term “God”, as theologian Rowan Williams points out in his book The Edge of Words, as a “one-word folk poem” to refer to whatever we feel is out of our control.

Both of these first two interpretations look at death, in some sense, ‘from the other side’ – evaluating the end of someone’s life in terms of speculation over what will happen next.

This idea of an injection being verlossende seems to me to be the opposite. I find myself hearing it in four different (and not mutually exclusive) ways, each to do with taking control of this very uncertain question of dying. The first, releasing, sounds to me like an echo of the neo-platonic ideas that still infuse public consciousness about what it means to be dead. As we slimily carve our pumpkins for Halloween and the children clamour to cut eyeholes into perfectly good bedsheets, we see a demonstration of society’s latent belief that humans are made up of body and soul, and that at death the soul somehow leaves the body and floats into some unknown realm (or else remains, disembodied yet haunting). If we translate verlossende as releasing then we capture that idea – that of the soul, which longs to be at peace, trapped inside suffering, mortal flesh.

Google’s second suggestion for verlossende was redeeming. This could be heard theologically. Christians believe in eternal life, that the death of this earthly body is only the start of something new – a life where there will be no crying or pain, and people will live forever in the glorious presence of God. In the bible, the apostle Paul encourages those who follow Christ to trust that they have been marked with a ‘seal’, meaning that they are like goods which have been purchased for a price, and that God will ‘redeem’ this purchase at the appointed time. Death, therefore, is not a fearful entering into the unknown, but a faithful entering into God’s promises.

Both of these first two interpretations look at death, in some sense, ‘from the other side’ – evaluating the end of someone’s life in terms of speculation over what will happen next. But there is the view from this ‘side’ also. We do not need to speculate about what death means for some of those who experience acute suffering due to terminal illness, and who wish to hasten the end of their lives because of it. They too might want to speak of a releasing injection or a redeeming injection – given that both terms hint at the metaphor of life as a prison sentence. To be in prison is to have one’s rights and freedoms severely limited or entirely taken away. It is not uncommon to hear a sufferer refer to incapacitating illness as being ‘like a prison sentence’, and one can empathise with the desire to have the release date set, back within the sufferer’s control.

This is the strange power and pregnancy of words – verlossende is able to carry all these meanings or none of them. Until I began researching this article, I had always assumed that the English term, lethal injection, simply meant an injection of some substance that is deadly. This is how the term is commonly understood, therefore, in a sense, this is its meaning. Yet, when I came to consider the possible origins of the word, I realised its likely etymology is from the Greek word lēthē, meaning ‘to forget’. In the Middle Ages, if something was lethal it caused not just death, but spiritual death, placing one beyond the prospect of everlasting life. By contrast, something could be fatal, meaning only that it brought one to one’s destiny or fate.

With this in mind, as we try to speak clearly in the assisted dying debate, the term fatal injection might be a more precise way to describe this pathway to death that is in want of a name. After all, whether you believe in an afterlife or not, dying is everybody’s fate, and I can see that choosing to take control of one’s fate is, for anyone, an act of faith with regards to what comes next.

This article was part-inspired by Theo Boer’s original article Euthanasia of young psychiatric patients cannot be carried out carefully enough, in Dutch newspaper Nederlands Dagblad. Theo is a professor of health ethics at the Protestant Theology University, Utrecht.

Read the original article in Dutch or an English translation below. Reproduced by permission.

Euthanasia of young psychiatric patients cannot be carried out carefully enough

Theo Boer

How is it possible to determine that patients who have suffered from psychiatric disorders for five or ten years and who are between the ages of 17 and 30 have ‘completed their treatment options’, wonders Theo Boer. It also conflicts with perhaps the most important task of psychiatrists: ‘offering hope.’

The patients we are talking about now are not physically ill and therefore do not have the ‘comfort’ of an impending natural death.

A letter was recently leaked in which leading psychiatrists ask the Public Prosecution Service to investigate the course of events surrounding euthanasia of young psychiatric patients.

One death mentioned by name concerns seventeen-year-old Milou Verhoof, who received the redeeming injection from psychiatrist Menno Oosterhoff at the end of 2023. It will not have escaped many people's attention how much publicity the topic has received in the past year or so. Together with a colleague and a patient (who later also received euthanasia), Oosterhoff wrote the book Let me go.

The tenor was: it is good that euthanasia is possible for this group of patients, the taboo must be removed, their suffering is often terrible, they have already had to undergo countless 'therapies' without effect - can one time be enough?

Or would we rather have these patients end their lives in a gruesome way? And who really thinks that psychiatrists make hasty decisions when they decide to comply with a euthanasia request?

To be clear: we are talking about something completely different than what has been called 'traditional euthanasia' for years: euthanasia for physically ill patients with a life expectancy of weeks or months. Given the excellent palliative care that has become available, such euthanasia will actually be less and less necessary in 2024.

Panic

No, the patients we are talking about now are panicky, anxious, confused, depressed, lonely, often unemployed, poorly housed, without prospects. But they are not physically ill and therefore do not have the 'comfort' of an impending natural death.

I have heard several of them say: if only I were terminal, then euthanasia would not be necessary. The fact that there is now attention for this group of patients, with whom we in our hurried and solution-oriented society know so little how to deal, is a gain. At the same time, I am happy with the leaked letter. You can criticize Oosterhoff's procedural approach ('why not an ethical discussion instead of a legal one?'), the lack of collegiality, this perhaps underhanded action ('why did you go straight to the Public Prosecution Service?'). But in my opinion, the letter writers are definitely hitting the mark with this crooked stick. Firstly: how is it possible to determine that patients who have suffered from psychiatric disorders for five or ten years and who are between the ages of 17 and 30 have ‘completed their treatment options’ (a criterion from the Euthanasia Act)?

Review Committee

Nobody disputes that their suffering is unbearable. At the same time, I know from my time on a Regional Euthanasia Review Committee that an illness becomes unbearable when all hope is gone.

A psychiatrist who gives euthanasia to a young adult is also undeniably sending the signal that, like his patient, he has given up all hope of improvement. That is actually risky, because even patients who have suffered for years sometimes recover and, moreover, our brains are not fully developed until we are 25. But it also conflicts with perhaps the most important task of psychiatrists: offering hope. In their training, the risk of transference-counter-transference is consistently pointed out: a patient takes his therapist with him into despair, the psychiatrist transfers those feelings to this and other patients: ‘this kind of suffering is untreatable and cannot be lived with’.

In the recent NPO television documentary A Good Death we see an embrace between a psychiatrist and her emotional patient. In doing so, this psychiatrist offers a unique form of involvement. But does she provide sufficient resistance to the cynicism, despair and negative vision of the future that is also widespread outside psychiatry?

Sensible decisions?

That brings me to a second objection: is it sufficiently recognised how much a psychiatric illness can affect someone’s ability to make sensible decisions? The hallmark of many psychiatric illnesses is a deep desire to die and an inability to think about it in a relative way. As a result, many are unable to think in terms of a ‘possibly successful therapy’.

Boudewijn Chabot

The main character in the book Zelf heeft by Boudewijn Chabot, Netty Boomsma, responds to Chabot's suggestion that there might be a life after depression: 'Yes, but then I won't be it anymore.' She wants to go down with her depression. I know differences. The people with a death wish who remark about a possible therapy: ‘I hope it is not effective, because then I will have to go through it again.’

Another hurdle

If a second psychiatrist is consulted and, for example, suggests trying one or two more therapies, many patients see this as yet another hurdle on the road to euthanasia. They do not see it as a serious opportunity to be able to cope with life again. There are no easy answers here. Nor are pillories appropriate. But let euthanasia remain complicated here, and let us continue to look for hope.

Reproduced by kind permission