I recently wrote that one needs to 'know their editor' when reading anthologies, and I concluded a similar lesson here, having just finished Helen Russell's "How to Be Sad".
If you are picking up a self-help book, it is essential to know your author.
A real danger exists within discussions of mental health and mental illness of leaving people out of the narrative, the umbrella covered by the topic at hand. I myself struggle with multiple mental illnesses, and anecdotally have felt much worse experiencing, say, a PD about depression which ignored male depression. Of being excluded FROM conversations about mental illness, despite my mental illnesses.
Hence my comments on knowing your author. This frustration, in this case, is largely my fault. Russell is a charming, funny guide to the topic of sadness, who complements personal stories of her own trauma and mental illnesses with quality interviews from a variety of interesting subjects.
But Russell is a writing as a woman with a family, friends, career. She deals with terrible experiences - the death from SIDS of her baby sister, her earliest memory. Her parents subsequent divorce, alienation from her father, anorexia and depression at different points in her adult life.
This, to me, is a 'normal' experience of tragedy and trauma, insofar as I can use that word having praised the heck out of "The Myth of Normal" by Gabor Mate.
But as someone with more traumas / mental illnesses and fewer resources (currently, almost no family left, no job), I open myself to disappointment when I engage with a book such as this one - a guide for a more normal experience.
I remain frustrated though - it would be so easy for Russell to acknowledge this inevitable fact outright - it will always be worse for somebody else, somewhere - and then pause to empathize with them. Or to empathize with men, who after all, are far more likely to die from deaths of despair, which are correlated with depression.
So many books published today swim in the same biased waters, and once again I find a good book like this diminished by shoe-horning references to woke issues into issues they do little to illuminate. Reading the advice given over a couple of pages by a BLM activist in this book feels like a contractual obligation Russell expects her readers to share. And when said activist encourages depressed people to help out others (good advice) by donating to BLM (???), it's hard not to see self-interest and divisiveness.
Intentionally or not, Russell has done what so many modern commentators on mental health do, which is rank and prioritize which GROUPS are most at risk of mental illness as a matter of 'common sense'. Inevitability, the sense given is that straight white men (such as moi) are not really worth worrying about. One should really avoid doing this sort of thing in books about being sad, no? In case it makes the problem worse?
The other interviewees (a real strength in Russell's hands here) are people with deep connections to mental illness, experts etc. If activists at all, they are activists on behalf of the mentally ill. Russell is clearly a skilled writer, well-connected and able to get interesting people to share personal stories about their mental health / illness.
She divides her book into three parts, the first of which, "How to Look after Ourselves when We Are Sad" correctly articulate the difference between mental health (shared by all humans, whether it is good or not) and mental illness (many people will never experience mental illness). She outlines that sadness is normal, and useful for humans - as all emotions are.
But she stresses that she is differentiating between 'good sad' - which developed to signal to others that we need help, and to help us to concentrate, reflect and change our lives to reduce the sadness - and the repressive avoidance so common in North America and parts of Europe. She insists we should try not to fight sadness, which can make things worse, and encourages basic, effective strategies, mindsets and goals throughout the rest of Part 1.
Next comes "How to Talk about Being Sad". More practical advice ensues, and Russell explores some of her advice in the context of her own fears of having rending herself barren while anorexic, and then with the challenges of motherhood when she and her husband surprisingly get pregnant. This section is necessarily feminized as a result, and again, I'd consider that as a male reader or a woman who can't / doesn't wan't / doesn't have kids.
The advice remains good, and memorably expressed. "The Fallacy of Arrival" and "Summit Syndrome" each get a chapter, and each concept has entered my own lexicon. She encourages support networks and turning to friends, but once again, this is a missed opportunity. SOME PEOPLE HAVE NOTHING! No friends! No possible support network, at least, not as suggested by Russell.
More good advice follows in Part 3, "Stuff to Do when You're Sad" - immerse yourself in 'culture', read, spend time in nature, exercise, perform altruistic acts, etc. None of this is groundbreaking (a common accusation towards the social sciences) but it is all eminently actionable, cogently presented, well-researched and supported, and highly enjoyable to read for a book about sadness (but hey, where is the index)?
Overall, I recommend this book for anyone who feels Russell's experiences relatable and who is looking for advice on how to 'do' sadness better, whether clinically diagnosed or just dealing with normal, human sadness.
For anyone with more specific / debilitating mental illnesses, bereavements or trauma, or anyone male whose issues are gendered, I'd suggest something less general.
NOTE - there are appendixes referenced in the text, missing in this (paperback) edition. Come on, editors!