A love letter to September

Howlingly sad month, or necessary evil? Either way, I turned to a book.

What is it about September that makes everyone say, ‘meh’? Could it be the ever-present, gut-wrenching ‘back to school’ feeling that marches itself determinedly into adulthood? Could it be the confirmation that summer is officially over, and yet another year is passing by too quickly? Could it be as simple as the change in weather, and the resulting indoor spider confrontations? Whatever it is about September that makes us feel indifferent and grey, September 2022 took that and super-charged it, despite my beloved Arsenal's best efforts to make it a good one.

I’m not saying September 2022 was the worst month of my life. There was another September, seven years prior, that took our family dog from us. That was the worst one. But 2022 was – as our American friends would say – a ‘doozy’. And not just because of the death of her Madge. Now, if you’re looking for some juicy personal gossip, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint. I’m not going to lay out in a blog all my trials and tribulations. Firstly, some things should be kept private, but I also detest sadfishing. I find it unattractively mawkish. I’m just here to review a book, without even telling you what the book’s called.

Yes, although September wasn’t the worst month of my life, it did spur me, in the early days of October, to read my first ever self-help book. I can’t even tell you what the title is, as it links too explicitly to the crisis that came upon me. Well, if I’m being honest – the crisis that I, myself, caused.

So how on earth am I going to review a book without even telling you what it is? Well, let’s see if I can try.

Self-help was exactly what I thought it’d be

I’ve always avoided self-help books. I’ve rolled my eyes at those shelves in Waterstones, wondering how on earth someone could be so stupid as to hand over 15 quid, just to read 100 pages of painfully obvious pseudo-psychology that only serves to tell them exactly what they want to hear about how they’re a wonderful person, and it’s the rest of the world that’s not ready for them. I always felt they celebrated mediocrity and, as my mum would put it, ‘feeling sorry for yourself’.

And, on reading my first one, it turns out I was entirely right. This self-help book ticked, in my opinion, every single box. It told me that what I was feeling was, indeed, entirely normal. That I needed to look after myself, and that started with diet and exercise (well, duh). That I would get through this period in my life. That practising gratitude and maybe doing (more) yoga would help me to be positive. That it wouldn’t always be this painful. That I needed to cut out my ‘destructive’ habits. And that I – and only I – was in control of how I come through the other side.

But even so…

In spite of the book’s predictable formula, and even though I already knew almost everything this book was telling me. It actually helped to have someone else lay it out for me. Particularly, I think, because I used an audio book. Hearing a tinny, robotic American voice helped me to distance myself from my own situation, separate it from my emotions, and view it through a more objective lens. It brought me clarity. It helped me to see the value in making an effort to proactively get through my current situation, not just waiting for it to pass me by – although there is still a bit of ‘time heals all wounds’, which I guess is inevitable. And even though it said it nicely, it was telling me to buck up my ideas and stop indulging in self-pity.

It's not therapy, but it’s a start

Having already tried cognitive behavioural therapy (for something else) and realising it wasn’t for me – mostly because I resented being given homework in my thirties – I was loathed to try it again. But I knew I needed help in some way. Especially because – owing to the circumstances – there really wasn’t anyone I could speak to about this, and I was getting desperate. I felt like I was trying to climb out of a pit, and everything around me was pushing me further and further down.

I guess what I’m saying is that, when it feels like the world is collapsing in on you, you don’t really have much to lose. So why not pick up – or listen to – a book? It’s not going to make you feel any worse, is it? Yes, there was a moment where the narrator said something which made me freeze in the middle of putting laundry away, and start crying because they’d summed up, in a single sentence, exactly how I felt. But actually, that outburst was a comfort; someone else had already trodden my exact path for me. Perhaps it’s me being gullible – like those who put stock in horoscopes – and believing that a vague, sweeping statement applies personally to me. But even if that’s the case, who cares? It helped me. It calmed me down. It made me realise there wasn’t only darkness.

Maybe if things don’t turn around in the long-term, I’ll go to a therapist and get some more tailored advice. But honestly, after listening to a 3-hour audiobook about ‘How to [get through the thing]’, I already feel a lot more in control and calm. And this is coming from a life-long self-help sceptic. From a ‘get on with it’-style British family. From a long line of unemotional non-huggers and eye-rollers. When my grandma died, we were genuinely embarrassed about the amount of crying at the funeral. She was 97, for goodness’ sake.

A changed opinion

Having said this, I’ve always been a little more heart-on-sleeve than my stock suggests. I’m a confusing mix of ‘emotionally distant eye-roller’, ‘insensitive but also cries a lot’ and ‘wants to be left alone’ but ‘attention-seeking’ (as one ex deftly put it). So, I’ve never thought a self-help book could really help me. I’ve always felt too jumbled up. But it seems that’s not uncommon. Maybe in the long run, it might feel like this book didn’t help much at all. But, even if its effects only last a few days – isn’t that still a positive outcome? When you’re stuck in a pit with no way out, isn’t one, single helping hand something to grab hold of and cling onto? At least until the next helping hand comes along. Or better yet, until you get enough of your own strength back to climb and climb and climb until you’re out in the daylight, and the pit is miles behind you. However you get through these things, it’ll always be that first hand that showed you the pit is just a hole, not a fridge-sized block of carbonite.

So, yeah – back to September, which I guess seems like a tenuous link right now. Even though I’ve not ‘come through the other side’ yet, or ‘turned a corner’ or whatever other self-help cliché you want to throw in, I still think that – as awful as it’s been – I might look back on September 2022 and see it as less of a pit and more of a stepping stone. If I do, it’ll be because a little audio book gave me a kick up the arse, and told me to stop wallowing so bloody much in my own feelings. Which is exactly the kind of self-help someone like me needs. And perhaps I’ve been reminded that we all need a September, now and then. Or once a year, as tradition dictates. It can’t always be 22-degree, 18-hours-of-daylight June, as much as we’d like that. Maybe a September is good for us. It prepares us for a possible January coming our way. But, the main thing to remember is that Septembers happen, and it’ll be June again soon. The book helped - and is helping - me focus on that.

Thank you for indulging me.