Gidday Cynics,

It has been a Week. The day job Matrix has me, and while this is definitely cause for celebration — having a job is an increasingly rare privilege these days, plus I actually like what I’m doing and suspect I may be borderline good at it — it has left scant time for newsletters.

So I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a while, and throw over to you, the readers. Although Cynic’s Guide is still just a baby in the newsletter lifecycle, I’m thrilled to have already acquired a brilliant and engaged commenter community. Imagine the comments on typical news website Facebook page, then imagine the opposite. That’s you. Be proud!

So for the rest of this newsletter I’m going to take some of the best reader feedback from the Webworm that kicked off this whole boondoggle as well as the newsletters that I’ve put out since, and give some more in-depth responses.

Let’s start with Michele, one of many readers who offered solid feedback and insight on that first Webworm article.

Michele says:

Yes indeed ‘the fields are ripe unto harvest’ for the opportunistic grifters (who are simply me or you with the volume turned WAY up) to ply their message of hope and validate our distrust of anything we are not.

This is extremely true. A lot of people in the self-improvement space really are just randoms with unwarranted confidence: living embodiments of the Dunning-Kruger effect. Whether or not they deserve the term “grifters” is debatable. I’m pretty sure some are intentionally grifting, but is it worse if they’re amplifying and manipulating people’s dissatisfaction unintentionally?

Emily says:

I’ve always felt like churches, cults, mlm’s, and the self help industry all recruit in a similar fashion. They look for an emotional vulnerability they can lean on, hit it as hard as they can, and then offer you both a solution and a community. The thought of a solution to your problems draws you in, and then the community traps you. It’s hard to pull yourself away from something when it feels like your whole life is wrapped up in it.

Yup. It’s all part of a continuum. I’m pretty sure a lot of my own distrust of cultish self-improvement communities comes from bad religious experiences. Even exercise classes tick that box for me, and for a long time I disliked participating in improv warm-up exercises. Too culty!

Bentia says:

It’s wrong to mock those who are trying to improve themselves but it’s well and good to truly interrogate those who are selling it to us because they are so often, deeply sick themselves… I try to stay away from self improvement for my own sanity since I don’t deal well with failure at all (I don’t even do New Year’s resolutions) I truly believe that the only safe form of self improvement involves therapy with a licensed professional and possibly an actual psychiatrist. There are too many scams out there and too many unwell people who are trying to get better by selling you something that hasn’t even worked for them.

Yes! A lot of people selling self-improvement are deeply fucked up. This speaks to a big part of what I’m trying to do — I want to find self-improvement stuff that isn’t being hawked by people who are themselves doing it to feel less broken, and that’s relatively safe to try doing yourself. Here, like before, there’s a continuum, and people are going to have to find their own comfort. Technically, going for a run is unsafe — you could have a heart attack, or get hit by a car, or be savaged by two wolves1 who aren’t inside you — but it’s rewarding and long-term it’s probably going to be quite good for you.

Karen says:

I have been involved in some of the wellness world a bit and here is how it sometimes goes:

1. You’re very special

2. You’re also fucked

3. Only I can fix you. Give me your money

I have read too many self-help books with that exact plot. It’s too predictable. They need to mix it up a bit.

A. Michelle says:

most of self-improvement pop culture is a grift. I think that monetizing the grift has shifted from books to influencers, the latter actually being *worse* because anyone who likes taking selfies and pointing at invisible pop-up text boxes can do it. It doesn’t need to be accepted by a publisher or go through an editor.

Fucking hell. This is too real and it makes me feel old. I can’t be doing with TikTok, I just can’t. It stresses me out. The app got wind of the fact I’m interested in self-improvement so it keeps trying to hook me on tradwife influencers peddling Christo-fascism and weird Jordan Peterson acolytes trying to sell me the benefits of testicle-tanning and (judging from the adult zits and haunted eyes) steroid use. I just about manage to put my art on YouTube but doing dances while pointing at the blank space where a text box could be while that horrible obnoxiously cheerful robot voice reads out the caption… fuck that all the way to hell. I’ll stick with my text-heavy newsletter like a common ageing millenial troglodyte, thank you very much. Humbug!

Denis says:

Self-improvement was considered to be a vital part of being “successful” in MLM ! We were forcefully encouraged to BUY, read and study books by Zig Ziglar, Eckhart Tolle, Tony Robbins, Dale Carnegie, Robert Kiyosaki (net worth $100 million) – in fact you couldn’t “go core” until you’d bought these books and introduced a certain number of people to the business in one year! Basically “going core” meant you were sucked in by the carrot offered to you – work hard at recruiting and selling for one year with the promise of an afternoon on the Amway super yacht rubbing shoulders with one or two “Diamonds” in the business!

When I was a kid I read Robert Kiyosaki’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad and found it exciting (I was 16) but disquieting. If I remember correctly, it was an cheat sheet for becoming a slum lord. I soured on it completely when I realised that Kiyosaki had become rich by selling a board game called The Cashflow Quadrant about how to become rich. So yeah, spot the grifter.

Jamie says:

I think grift/scam is actual a semi positive term for some of these self help gurus, these people are after far more than just your money. They want to program you, and they’re very open about their objective, they want your money, time, endorsement & your success stories.

Yup. Like so much in our current state of so-called late stage capitalism,2 you and I are not just the customers; we are the product.

JP says:

Second, the unhealthy-ness that comes with people taking self-improvement too far has always facinated me but I don’t see it discussed so openly. I’m frustrated how self exploration and educating yourself in history, philosophy, psychology and spirituality so often bumps up against this unhealthy obsession with someone trying to ‘fix’ you and nothing ever being enough. It’s so healing to see this being talked about. Thank you so much.

Thanks JP! I’m sure there are healthy ways to explore this stuff. I’m convinced self-improvement is a pretty fundamental human impulse and I’m tired of seeing it monopolised by grifters and earning a reputation as garbage.

Kat says:

I feel like your assessment of self-help is quite gendered as you haven’t identified any of the ways parents (mostly mothers) are preyed on and all the ways they could be improving their parenting. I hope that’s included in your longer project

This is true, and a good point. I replied to this comment when Kat wrote it on Webworm, but I wanted to do it again here. I’m looking at the world of self-improvement from my perspective, which is as mid as it is possible to be. I am a married straight white man with a corporate job, approaching the pointy end of my 30s, who has become overly interested in pull-ups. Fortunately, I have friends who identify otherwise and have different perspectives, and some of them have offered to write guest spots. Others have agreed to interviews. I’m looking forward to showing their perspectives here, and if you have expertise you’d like to see shared, I’d love to hear from you.

Some more recent comments! This one popped up just a couple of days ago but I forgot to reply. Linda says:

If you could share some tips on how to get out of bed when the alarm goes off that would be great!

Putting your phone away from your bed is just cruel to your morning self, I can’t do that to poor morning me.

Uhhh. I’ll share what works for me, in order of “sometimes effective” to “100 percent guaranteed effective:”

1. Putting my phone in a different room. Sorry! I do this most nights, and perversely, I find that the antici3 of getting up to see all the exciting messages that have undoubtedly arrived in the wee hours can help yank me out of bed. Then I get up and reply to work emails. Brains are weird.

2. This one is embarrassing, but it works. I pretend I’m a robot. Instead of trying to will myself out of bed, I just watch as my limbs kind of autonomously operate to drag me to the kitchen kettle where I can make coffee. Binary solo.

3. Acquire a child. Having a screaming infant in the house will get you out of bed at any hour of the day or night, repeatedly. I guarantee it. The human brain is hardwired to be unable to shut that sound out.

And, stealing advice from others: you might benefit from more sleep, if that is possible for you, and more exposure to sunlight in the morning. Both can really help.

More comments I forgot to reply to! Amy Smith says:

I once played assassins creed so much during highschool (HSC Trials) that I experienced the Tetris effect and was playing it when I closed my eyes and hearing/hallucinating the eagle scream

Ugh, shut-eye hallucinations after doing the same thing too much during the day can be really intense. It’s happened to me with videogames many times, but the worst ones I ever experienced were when I worked as a beekeeper. I’d shut my eyes and they’d be full of bees.

Here’s one of my favourite comments, from the Two Wolves fakelore article, courtesy of my friend Jackson:

Shaped by late stage tech capitalism we’re being reduced to ‘gramable characters of ourselves with all the gory details almost literally filtered out. All this unfactchecked trite superficial bullshit is easy, it’s a nice story that helpfully neglects the complex’s realms of neuroscience, psychology, and physics (how the fuck do two full grown wolves fit inside a human let alone have enough space to fight?)

Now there’s nothing wrong with having a yarn and spinning a tale — even if it is a bit of a shit one. The problem arises when we’re so bombarded by these simple black/white narratives which just do not stack up with out insanely complex lived experience. They start to make us feel shit. If I could only tame that wolf. Next thing you know your YouTube recommendations are all videos about how to tame wild animals and your Insta ads are all at home surgery kits.

The weird thing is that Seneca kinda foresaw all of this. His works are littered with aphorisms which, 2000 years later, still ring true.

To boil this all down to one pithy quote — and tie up this little story where I’ve railed against little narratives which fit nicely in gift wrapped boxes replete with bow — here is Seneca:

“We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality”

Oversimplifying problems, then trying to solve them, is at the root of so much of what is wrong with self-improvement. Alphas and betas. Two wolves. Crows and eagles. The mating habits of Maine lobsters. You can’t fix those things, because the metaphors are too tortured and have devolved into nonsense. It’s a brilliant insight. Thank you, Jackson.

Final word on Two Wolves goes to another old friend and welcome presence here on CGTSI, Lucy:

For my coaching work I’m learning about Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) and was listening to a podcast interview (ironically, on a podcast called The One You Feed) with Russ Harris, who is an excellent writer on the topic. Check him out (The Happiness Trap should be required reading). Anyway, he doesn’t like the metaphor, because he thinks as long as the wolves are fighting neither will win – better to have the wolves learn to coexist and make peace with each other, to co-operate and work together, because neither can dominate the other for long.

I really like that. Starving wolves are notoriously troublesome. So don’t starve the wolf. Befriend it. If you’re going to indulge the metaphor, this seems like a healthy way to do so.

And, lastly, here’s my increasingly insurmountable reading and podcast list, as recommended by you. Feel free to suggest more in the comments! I look forward to reading them at some point in the next decade or so.

Podcasts to check out

• Conspirituality
• If Books Could Kill
• Maintenance Phase
• What Matters Most

Books to check out

• Feeling Good by David Burns
• The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read by Philippa Perry
• Keeping House While Drowning by KC Davis
• Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers
• How To Do The Work by Dr. Nicole LePera
• Suckers by Rose Shapiro
• Slow by Brooke McAlary
• The Happiness Trap by Russ Harris
• Things Might Go Terribly, Horribly Wrong by Kelly G. Wilson and Troy DuFrene
• The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A Fuck by Sarah Knight

YouTubers to tolerate

• WheezyWaiter
• Iilluminaughtii

Even more self-improvement stuff to do / strenuously avoid

• Reiki
• Tai Chi
• Sound healing(!)
• Crystals
• Oils
• Wellness festivals

That’s it for now! Thanks for your kind and thoughtful comments. You make this newsletter what it is, and I’m stoked to have you here. Now, I’ve got a request: please talk amongst yourselves! I’d love to hear from those who might have been feeling a bit shy up until now, and for you to let other readers know what you’re about. Let’s hear your ideas about self-improvement, and (especially) in what ways you’ve found self help has actually helped your selves. It’s all valid and interesting. Sound off in the comments, and then I can do another one of these clip-show newsletters when I next have a frantic week at work.

Also here is a painting I did. First watercolour in a year and a half.

Gidday Cynics,

I hope you like my new idea, which is to give every newsletter a title that looks like it’s straight from a self-help book. Readers should be able to pick which one I’m riffing on.

I’m still experimenting with the best time to send these things out, which is code for “I got all up in my head about writing a newsletter for four days.” Once I managed to extract myself from Instagram, a terrible app run by awful people that I almost never actually post to so why God why do I even use it, I tried to dig in to what it was I was actually avoiding. It’s weird. I like writing this newsletter, just like I genuinely enjoy doing  other things I chronically avoid, like art.

That line of inquiry didn’t go anywhere, so I tried instead asking myself why I couldn’t get started. And I think I may have figured it out:

Trying to hype myself up to do things fucks me up.

This, seemingly, flies in the face of all recieved wisdom about motivation. Think of dudes like Dave Goggins giving a lecture about how we need to “stay hard” while running his daily marathon. That’s what motivation is, right? Surely, or why else would YouTube be stuffed with videos bearing glorious clickbait titles like “David Goggins – STAY HARD – The BEST OF Motivation – Motivational Video” (4.9 million views.)

I suspect a lot of us have the same idea; that motivation is that raring-to-go buzzy feeling we get before diving into something we very much want to do. But the more I think on it the more I think it’s not. I think that feeling is simply excitement, and we all know excitement’s fretful counterpart — anxiety.

Maybe I avoid things because I am excited about them. Or, put another way, anxious about them.

Maybe I’d been making myself anxious about things because I think that’s how we’re meant to make ourselves do things.

Maybe that’s not quite right.

Look. This newest epiphany probably isn’t going to surprise anyone. Obviously, the harder things seem, the harder they are to get started.  “Hard things are hard.” Well done, Josh. That’s the kind of insight everyone’s signed up for. But what I have found, looking back on the occasions where I’ve managed to pull off a surprising variety of somethings ranging from stupendously boring to genuinely frightening, the same feeling seems to be at the centre of it all.

“Meh.”

That’s right. Chalk one up for Generation Meh, the Millennial slacktivists, the perpetually bored, the Simpsons-poisoned sardonic ironists. Maybe we had it right all along. Because, if I’m being honest, “Fuck it, may as well,” seem to be the magic words that move me through the invisible wall of inaction into actually doing a thing that needs doing. The motivating factor isn’t excitement, it’s a total lack of thought, an infintesimal brain blank that’s helped me with everything from:

• actually washing the three-day-old handwashing dishes I’d spent maybe an hour trying to talk myself into doing, to
• that time I went rock climbing with my brother and jumped from one wall to another, twelve metres up in the air, which is kind of a big deal for me

It might not be just me. People who making a living from doing hard things seem to make use of it as well. I just spent twenty minutes trying to dig up a half-remembered quote from someone —  snowboarder Shaun White, I think. In my memory, the exchange went something like this:

INTERVIEWER: “When you’re standing at the top of a halfpipe for a run that might net you a gold medal, what’s going through your head?”

WHITE: “I’m thinking ‘I don’t care.’”

It took a while to find anything close to what was starting to seem like one of those weird “did I actually hear that or did I just dream it” memory artifacts, but I eventually pinned down the source of the quote —  a seven-minute-ish snippet from a cringeingly-named Apple TV show called The Greatness Code. I had to sub to Apple TV to get this, so I hope you’re happy. Here’s Shaun White:

The weather is turning, the shade is coming over, the clouds are moving in. It just was looking like Mordor. You know what I mean? I’m like, “Oh, great.” And I’m complaining to my coach. “I don’t think I got it. Like, I’m so tired. My legs are giving out.”  That’s when the pressure really started to be put on me.

I got these, like, visions going through my head of, like, being this huge hype and not even making the team, which is something you don’t want to have in your mind. I’ve always described those pressure situations as being completely focused on what you’re about to do and then having a slight bit of, you know, “I don’t care what happens.” Because you need that sort of thing to take the pressure off, to put it into perspective. And it all comes down to this…

A bit more looking around suggests this purposeful mental de-escalation is pretty common, especially among performance atheletes. Maybe it’s a shortcut to a Zen moment, a kind of mind-meets-matter koan that acts as a gateway to a flow state.

I don’t know if this will come as a surprise to anyone else. Part of what worries me about this project is the idea that the things I find surprising or helpful are just  garden-variety banalities that everyone else already does.  But the more of this shit I do, the more I think that it isn’t just that things are banal and obvious, it’s that the trick is reminding yourself of banal, obvious things. And the reason they might be a bit obvious is because, well, they work.

So yeah. Time to do a couple of things I’ve been anxious — sorry, excited — to do for a while. There’s a painting that wants doing.

And a newsletter that needs sending.1

Gidday Cynics,

First, a warm welcome to the new readers who’ve signed up after reading my Webworm guest post “An Insult To Life Itself” on AI. It was… interesting to write. AI is complicated and confusing, but I think it’s best viewed from a few steps back, where it becomes clear that it’s mostly just gas on our cultural garbage fire.

Why AI is Arguably Less Conscious Than a Fruit Fly

Hi, Thanks for all the feedback on the 3-Year Anniversary newsletter! Your comments warmed my cold dead heart! “I’ve been here since the beginning and Webworm has been a bit of mental refuge. I read it during the depths of covid, in the hospital while waiting for my son to be born, in the middle of dozens of boring work meetings. The eclectic mix of artic…

Webworm with David Farrier

If you’ve read that piece, or my previous Cynic’s Guide piece “A Scientist’s Guide To Self-Improvement Science (For Non-Scientists)” you’ll be familiar with Dr Lee Reid. He’s helping me out with a problem I’ve been perplexed by since I started this newsletter: how can normal people tell good advice from bad, or good science from suss?

The last newsletter was a really deep and quite dense dive into stuff like the philosophy of science, but this one is all practical. Here’s how you — whether you’re a layperson with a casual interest in scientific topics, a die-hard gym-bunny, a dedicated psychonaut, a journalist, or just an easily-distracted dilettante like me — can apply some of the tools scientists use to the big claims we’re so used to seeing all over news and social media.

Dr Lee “Actual Neuroscientist” Reid’s Guide for Adults Who Can’t Science Good And Who Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too

Books

Books are not where reputable new science is published. If a book appears to makes new claims, or new leaps in understanding of something, leave it on the shelf. If a book aims to make published science understandable, this might be for you… but see if other scientists who work in that area stand by it. What do the quotes say on the back cover? Some examples:

Toss it:

“This book revolutionizes our understanding of…”

“Dr X provides creative insights into…”

“… digs into X to reveal…”

Consider it:

“Does a great job of summarizing…”

“… clear writing style provides an accessible overview“

“… cuts through the jargon with straightforward…”

Peer Reviewed Journal Articles

All reputable new science is published in these. Non-reputable science is as well. These are split into review articles and original findings.

Go straight for the review articles. The author has done the reading for you. Google Scholar and PubMed (health only) are the best places to search.

Find the primary (first-listed) author’s bio on Google Scholar. Ask yourself: before this article, did they publish many things on this topic that have citations? If so, it’s likely to be a high-quality review. It not, double check that the bio of the most senior (last-listed) author looks OK.

What’s the journal? Journals get ranked. Generally, the better-ranked the journal, the more fierce the peer review. For most niche topics there are fewer than 10 top journals, but hundreds of journals available to publish in. If it’s not a Q1 (top 25%) journal for this topic, then abort. You can find Q1 lists online.

Skim read. If it’s covering what you want to know, read it again more carefully. If it doesn’t have enough depth, take note of some of its citations and look at them.

If there are not enough publications in a new area for a review, this probably means there’s not enough evidence to make a financial or life decision on. If you want to move ahead anyway, dig into the original research. Reading too much of this in a day can melt your brain, so getting through it is all about efficiency. There are plenty of guides for this, but most are for new graduate students. Have a read through a guide like that, taking special note of the order to read the article’s contents in. As you’re probably without much academic background in the topic, some added advice:

• You’re going to need to Google jargon as you go and note down what words mean. That’s normal. Don’t get too in-depth as some things take a long time to grasp.
• Recall articles are broken up into Abstract (a summary), Introduction (background information), Methods, Results (results without interpretation), and Discussion (interpretation of results).
• Before tackling these, try to first find an “accessible abstract” or “plain language summary” on the article website. Famous articles also sometimes have a commentary that sums them up well.
• If this is one of the first few articles you’ve read, DO read the introduction. Most articles will provide a mini literature review to get you started.
• You’re not likely to understand the methods section or even much of the results – skim read them at best.

Before trusting what you read, make sure the results have been replicated multiple times by multiple groups. Anything short of that is interesting but frankly inconclusive. Most importantly, look for red flags:

Big Red Flags:

• Authors:

  • Work in industry (check for disclosures), politically-interested institutions, or a non-reputable institution.

  • Are from a non-scientific field like Law or Economics.1

• Methodological issues:

  • No statistics, or not mentioning the statistics.

• Misrepresentation

  • Any limitation that seems clear to you as a layperson, and yet is not discussed.

  • The sample size is small – say, 1-10 people – and they make a strong conclusion or advice-like suggestions to the general population.2

  • The study doesn’t mention other papers that you know contradict this study.

  • Cherry-picking their own results by only discussing those that support the conclusion.

• Reputation

  • Not a Q1 journal

  • The article is 5+ years old and it has only been cited 2 – 3 times. It’s likely other scientists have simply ignored it. (Note that a high citation count can mean the article is important or it’s controversial.)

  • Being rubbished in the media by multiple scientists.

Borderline Red Flags:

• Authors:

  • Are sponsored by industry.3

  • Are all from a mismatched scientific department, like the Psychology Department when the topic is Cellular Biology.

  • Are fronting a study on thousands of people, that does not have an epidemiologist, public health expert, or statistician as the first or second listed author.

  • All lack PhDs. This includes all-MD publications. MDs are very skilled but rarely have equivalent scientific/analysis experience.

• Methodological issues:

  • Lots of statistical values (e.g. > 10 p-values) when the sample size is not in the thousands.

  • The work relies entirely on the honesty and good memory of people via surveys.4

  • Populations studied do not match the population being compared to. A study on the mental health of Orkney Islanders, or hormones of lobsters (yeah, that’s a dig), is unlikely to have much relation to people living a bustling lifestyle in New York.

• Weak Peer Review:

  • Publishing occurred very quickly after submission5

  • Methods sections seem too short for another scientist to assess the work.

  • Any discussion using words like “groundbreaking”. This is rarely true and suggests peer review was weak.

  • Any result that just sounds off, and the authors don’t discuss it as such.

Also, before changing your life based on what you read, there are some real scientific language and statistical gotchas that trip people up:

• “Significant” means reliable, not “big amount”. Things need to be significant and represent a big change or difference to matter.

  • i.e. If someone says a new pillow design results in “significantly more sleep,” read that as “reliably more sleep”, then ask “how much more?”

  • If someone says their new pillow design gives an extra hour more sleep per night, but this is not significant, take that as meaning that there’s no good evidence you’ll get that extra hour of sleep.

• When people talk about risk or odds, look up the exact term they use. A 10% increase in risk sometimes can mean your chance increases by one-in-ten, and sometimes means something else.6

• Scientific graphs can be more complicated than what is taught in school. Instead of looking at the graph, base your understanding on the text description of results, unless you feel you really understand every squiggle, dot, and bar on that chart.

There you go. You now know how, in the words of astronaut Mark Watney, to “science the shit out of this.” You’ll probably note that the methods Lee outlines are often both difficult and time-consuming. Welp, that’s science for you! It’s no wonder that a lie can race around the world when the truth not only takes several months to lace up its boots but first has to go through several cycles of intense peer review on the best ways to tie them.

Thank you for reading The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement. This post is free, so you’ve found it helpful in any way, please share it.

In personal self-improvement journey news, sleep week is going well. Ish. My watch tells me I got 8 hours sleep the night before last, which is a very rare thing. The following day was unusually productive, which might be a clue to how helpful getting more sleep might be for me. Let’s see if I can do it more than once. I’m also getting a lot more exercise than before. Art is still languishing, but I have an idea on how to deal with that. I’ll talk about it next time.

Also, thanks again to the new subscribers. It’s great to have you here — feel free to introduce yourselves in the comments!

— Josh

Gidday Cynics,

Thanks for waiting for this newsletter. There’s a lot of info here, so I wanted to take extra time to make sure it was as solid as possible.

This one has been brewing for a while. A few weeks ago, I wrote about the need a lot of us feel to improve our sleep, and referenced a book called Why We Sleep, by neuroscientist and sleep specialist Dr Matthew Walker. My plan was to write another newsletter picking out what I thought was the good stuff from the book, while raising a few things I wasn’t so sure about. But, as several readers pointed out, the book was quite controversial. So I looked around online to see some of the reactions. Some  suggested the book was merely unhelpful, creating sleep problems by increasing readers’ worry about their sleep. Others went as far as to say it was overtly harmful, or that it had been mostly or entirely debunked,  which is itself a very big claim.

A couple of readers suggested I check out a podcast called Maintenance Phase, hosted by Michael Hobbes and Aubrey Gordon. I was happy to, because I was already a fan of one of the hosts, having subscribed to Michael’s Substack newsletter Confirm My Choices.  Plus, the podcast topic — a skeptical look at wellness and health trends —  seemed right up my alley.

Unfortunately, I hated it.

Your mileage may vary. For me it was like having my ears crucified. One host spends a great deal of time denigrating Walker’s personal appearance, which is something I absolutely can’t stand. Can we just leave people’s looks alone? This was followed by discussion about about how Walker “talks slowly,” and that the hosts had to listen to him on 2x speed, which is both unfair and ridiculous,1 because the way these hosts talk did not spark joy. They hail from the extremely American podcasting style of screaming with laughter every ten seconds at things that aren’t jokes, like an unlikable crew of randos that dominate the kitchen at a house party held by a friend of a friend. I suppose this can be fun, for people who are familiar with the hosts, but for a newcomer it’s agony. Here’s a brief sample of the dialogue, from memory:

We have to like, so I’m going to send you, so I’m sorry like

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Oh like, I know but I’m going to…

Hahahaha!

…send you a TED talk

HAHAHAAAAAA

HA HA HA HA HA

pfthllllbttttt

SNORT

HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW

Oh my godddddddd

I still haven’t finished the podcast, and I don’t know if I will. I told myself I’d listen to the rest of it while I mowed the lawns, only to find myself myself preferring the soothing cough of the lawnmower choking on over-long grass.2

To be fair, I don’t think there is necessarily anything wrong with ridiculing ideas that evidence shows are erroneous, misleading, or dangerous. If I did, I’d be a massive hypocrite. But I do think it important that the message not be completely lost in the medium, and I was dismayed to find myself so annoyed by the hosts that I felt inclined to disagree with everything they said. What’s more, the more I listened the more I felt that the hosts were guilty of exactly what they accused Walker of: indulging in hyperbole at the expense of evidence. And who can you trust, if you find yourself unable to trust the people doing the debunking?

I was desperate for answers. So I phoned —  or rather, emailed — a friend.

Fortunately for me (and you), this friend is the smartest person I (or you) have ever met. Dr Lee Reid is a neuroscientist, and before he did that, he learned software development from books while writing code for a music composition program with voice-recognition software and a foot-operated mouse. The story of his recovery from a crippling, mysterious pain disorder is absolutely extraordinary and I encourage you to check it out. Choose from the prose version or comic-book version, illustrated by, uh, me. I’m stoked to have him here.

(Content warning: readers are advised that the following conversation contains references to self-harm and suicide.)

Hi, Dr Lee Reid, if that is your real name. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?

Sure. So, in short I’m a software engineer and neuroscientist. I began in Auckland, NZ, where I studied human physiology and medical science. I did my PhD at Australia’s CSIRO and the University of Queensland, focusing on how we can use medical imaging, like MRI, to measure brain changes that represent learning or physical rehabilitation. That’s an area where it can be easy to unintentionally make claims that ultimately don’t stack up. Post PhD I developed imaging software to help clinicians plan safer brain surgery — work that I hope to continue at the University of California this year. Again, that’s an area where detail is everything, and being picky in your science is fundamental to safety.

On the flip side, I’ve also spent some time in and around biomedical start-ups and in pure software engineering. In both these environments, workers are often pushed to “move fast and break stuff” while the business makes fairly wild claims in the interests of securing funding one way or another. I’ve also spent some time assessing articles made by Big Pharma about the cost vs benefits of their medicines — an area where there can be clear incentive to exaggerate but where making clearly inflated claims could backfire.

Cool, that’s really helpful to know. So, this self-improvement experiment I’m doing — one of the things I ran into straight away was the sheer volume of either inflated claims or anecdotal stories or a lack of hard evidence or just full-on lies that riddle the field. As a journalist, I was keen to avoid the worst of this minefield by trying to stick with stuff that was well-evidenced, drew on expert research, or was written by experts, but I’ve run into problems there too. For instance, I’ve read a 2017 book called Why We Sleep by Matthew Walker, a neuroscientist at UC Berkeley. A few claims in the book raised my eyebrows, such as the claim that “sleep is a panacea;” and this passage (from the first page of the book):

Routinely sleeping less than six or seven hours a night demolishes your immune system, more than doubling your risk of cancer. Insufficient sleep is a key lifestyle factor determining whether or not you will develop Alzheimer’s disease. Inadequate sleep—even moderate reductions for just one week—disrupts blood sugar levels so profoundly that you would be classified as pre-diabetic. Short sleeping increases the likelihood of your coronary arteries becoming blocked and brittle, setting you on a path toward cardiovascular disease, stroke, and congestive heart failure. Fitting Charlotte Brontë’s prophetic wisdom that “a ruffled mind makes a restless pillow,” sleep disruption further contributes to all major psychiatric conditions, including depression, anxiety, and suicidality.

…but I told myself, well, he’s the expert, not me. Then I found resources, including Walker’s Wikipedia page, that claimed there were inaccuracies and vital omissions in the book, and readers of my newsletter commented with links that some said added up to a full-on debunking. And now… well, I have a lot I could say or ask about this, but for now I’d welcome your thoughts.

I’ll tread carefully here as I’m not someone who specializes in sleep science.

Look, there really are a lot of claims packed into that paragraph. While some seem plausible to me — for example, that you need sleep to have your immune system working optimally — some seem to go against my knowledge of the literature.

Let’s take cancer as an example. Scientists check a claim like this by reading as many good-quality studies as they can, weighing up how robust those studies really were, and then coming to an opinion on the truth of the matter. Often the answer is “it depends” — for example, often people have a reason to not sleep much (such as anxiety or noise in a city) which themselves might be detrimental to health. Or perhaps lack of sleep is linked to issues but only in certain situations. Usually, we don’t have the time to chew through all available studies on a topic unless it’s our full-time job.

Another way is to read a meta analysis. In a meta analysis someone combines lots of studies using statistics. Meta analyses tend to give fairly straightforward answers but can lack that nuance we mentioned before. In this case, there is more than one meta analysis and they pretty clearly state that for most of us, no, the evidence doesn’t suggest that getting less sleep causes cancer. Thankfully.

So, back to those claims. Do you need sleep to function well and generally feel OK though? Yeah, of course you do. You don’t need neuroscience to know that, though, because you feel crap when you don’t get enough. Could that lead to bigger problems down the line? The science (that I’m aware of ) says yes, but not cancer.

Something that strikes me about what you’ve quoted is how emotive it is. Personally if I read any health book whose opening paragraph ends in “X contributes to suicidality” I get the impression I’m trying to be scared in to some kind of marketing hook. It’s very easy to get an emotional response without lying by using technical words like “contributes” so let’s be clear here: People don’t harm themselves primarily due to bad bedtime habits. They just don’t.

Right. That makes sense to me, and seems to square with some of the more, uh, vehement criticism out there. Might a better word be “correlates?” Like, obviously this is conjecture, but I can easily imagine a situation where — in addition to the numerous other factors that might converge in suicidality —  a sustained lack of sleep might contribute to, say, a breakdown. And that’s where the disappointment is for me: it seems obvious that lack of sleep is correlated with lots of bad things but isn’t necessarily a causative factor. Why isn’t that enough? Why does it have to be sexed up to the point that it’s open for criticism and the validity of the original message is lost?

I guess what you’re getting at is that there’s causality at different stages, and to different levels, and when you simplify too much you misrepresent the reality. If someone is in an emotionally dark place, cutting back on sleep even further is going to make things worse. No doubt. Will lacking sleep drive you to suicide? C’mon. Do I need to answer that?

Talking about correlations in this space can get quite interesting, but it’s hard to condense. In essence, when analyzing complex medical conditions, taking averages of people who probably shouldn’t be treated as equivalent can produce profound correlations that are either unhelpful or completely false. That happens especially when people get put into categories, which is how a lot of psychiatry works. (Simpson’s paradox is a favorite example of this problem in action). On the flip side, we can also know from experience that something is true — like, “getting enough sleep is helpful for practically everyone” —  but the limits of mathematics mean we can’t demonstrate it well.

Another thing to keep in mind is that complex statistics and statistical terms take a lot of expertise to understand. We regularly have “significant” correlations that mean next-to-nothing, “strong correlations” that we are uncertain about, and large increases in relative risk that are realistically negligible. We can even have strong significant correlations showing large relative increases in risk, only for those to be completely irrelevant to daily life.

Right. So, essentially, the answer is “it’s complicated!” But it does go to show how easily claims can be inflated, either by book authors, or in the minds of the general public. I’ve seen a lot of what seem like sexed-up or misunderstood claims in many pop-science books, no matter the authority of the author. What’s your take on why this seems to happen?

I disagree that irresponsible statements tend to appear in books from scientists who are authoritative in the eyes of their peers. It certainly occurs with some who have made tenure, and especially those at some private, high-profile, US-based universities, but that’s not the same thing. When I think back on extreme books like The Bell Curve the cynic in me can’t help but think “all publicity is good publicity” — both for the Uni and the author. Writing a book doesn’t grant any academic authority. It grants a paycheck.

Perhaps another factor is just the desire to finally speak your mind. Scientists spend their whole careers semi-muzzled by peer review.

I agree that exaggeration is not necessary. Science is riddled with incredibly interesting things and there are plenty of scientist communicators out there who are acclaimed for conveying nature’s wonders in a responsible and engaging way. Attenborough, Hawking, Sagan… If you want something smaller, Pint of Science is an annual sell-out event in 26 countries and I’ve not yet heard anyone tell any porkies.

When it comes to Walker and Why We Sleep he’s addressed some of the criticism he’s faced on his website. What are your thoughts on this?

There’s a lot of critique he’s discussed there. In some parts, he walks us through some of the nuance I mentioned earlier, which should be applauded, as doing so is tricky. In other parts… well. It’s not hard to find places where disagreement between studies has not been acknowledged. Studies disagree almost as a rule, and peer review makes us pare back our interpretation of results to something people can be reasonably sure of. Any work you come across relying on a single citation is immediately something you should take with a pinch of salt.

If this landscape is difficult for people with science qualifications to navigate, what hope do laypeople have?

It’s not that that science is necessarily difficult for a scientist to navigate. It is just very fiddly, which means it takes time. It’s also that a scientist’s view of truth is quite different. I’ll try not to go down a philosophical rabbit-hole here, but I wish we had space for that because it really explains so much. In short, science thinks truth exists, but thinks that every way we can access it is fraught with error, so “how much doubt” we have is something we always need to factor in.

Think about accessing the truth more like a criminal court case. Get as much evidence as you can and ask if you have reasonable doubt left over. Then, maybe, consider not making a black and white life decision on it and, if possible, experiment yourself. Grab the cheap version of the product, somewhat increase consumption of product X, spend more time alone but don’t leave your partner just yet, and so on.

Fair enough! It sounds like what I’m trying to do here. So, what sort of pinch of salt are you talking about here? How can we get a good idea of what’s true or not?

How do you sift through evidence? Well:

At this point, Lee dropped a science bomb. The good kind, not the Manhattan Project kind.

I was expecting a couple of paragraphs on sifting through evidence the scientific way. He gave me nearly four pages, and they’re fantastic — I’m going to find them incredibly helpful, and I think you will too. In fact, they’re so comprehensive that I think they’re worth their own post, rather than being buried down the bottom of this one. Look out for it in your inboxes later this week.

As far as my personal self-improvement journey goes, I’ve decided that (Why We Sleep controversy notwithstanding) this week is Sleep Week. I’m going to give myself the best possible shot at getting a solid 8 hours shut-eye every night for seven days and see what happens. There is no guarantee of success — I meant to do this last week, but several nights plus a hospital trip with a sick toddler scuttled the idea entirely. However, something that is within my control is a brief retirement from my long,  undistinguished Halo-playing career. I’ll report back next week.

As always, this newsletter is free. If you want to thank Lee for the extraordinary amount of time and effort he put into our correspondence (and you/your friends are musically inclined) go check out his music composition software, Musink. And the best way to pay me for this work is to share it around, so please think about who might find it useful, and send it their way.

Looking forward to your feedback in the comments!

— Josh

Hello, Cynics. If you subscribe to one or more Substack newsletters, you are now likely drowning in requests to join Notes, the noo feature Substack just launched. Obviously, you should ignore all those other emails, and pay attention to mine.

I like what I have seen so far of Notes, although I think they missed a trick on the name.

Look at that top-tier Note. Now look at the engagement numbers. This is why I need you to join Notes, readers. With your help, that Note could have at least twice the Likes it currently does.

Notes does also have some non-Noot uses. For instance, I was able to use it to highlight this comment from reader (and wonderful friend, ) just by hitting the “ReStack” button on his comment on my newsletter. This is very cool.

Notes also has some less lovely features, like a flimsy commitment to “free speech” that looks like both a cop-out and a ticking culture-war time bomb.

I think this would be a much better and more viable platform if they acted quickly on the rampant racists, transphobes, anti-vaxxers, and others — some quite prominent — that have siezed on the opportunity to build communities of hatred on Substack. Because, let me be extremely clear, the above is not a good example of how you should be thinking about running a social network in 2023 or any other year. Quite apart from discussions of “civility” (often code for “making a certain class of people feel comfortable and unchallenged), letting the baddies in, or not having a plan to deal with them, poses an existential threat to a new social network. Shorter version: If you let the Nazis in, it’s a Nazi bar.

All that said, I’d quite like you to join me in what currently seems like a decent space, and hopefully make it decent-er. It’s worth a go. Here’s the Substack boilerplate:

Noots is a new space on Substack for us to share links, short posts, quotes, photos, and more. I plan to use it for things that don’t fit in the newsletter, like work-in-progress or quick questions.

How to join

Head to substack.com/notes or find the “Noots” tab in the Substack app. As a subscriber to The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement, you’ll automatically see my noots. Feel free to like, reply, or share them around!

You can also share noots of your own. I hope this becomes a space where every reader of The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement can share thoughts, ideas, and interesting quotes from the things we’re reading on Substack and beyond.

I hope you have a good time on Notes, and I hope the management finds its way to getting on top of the hate-speech-peddling culture-jackers before they burn the whole thing down. Because this place is about to be tested. Every other shitlord on the Internet is about to start an account here to see what they can get away with. Good luck, Substack! You’ll need it.

If nothing else, it’ll be interesting.

Hi, Cynics! I hope you don’t mind if I call you that, because I’m going to anyway.

I think we could all use a break from ultrapersonal infodumps, so I’m going a bit lighter for this newsletter. It’s partly out of necessity. My little lad had a fever last night (don’t worry, he’s OK!) and his mum and I are pretty damn sleep deprived. As a result, I spent a good chunk of today with a sniffly toddler lying on me wondering what I was actually going to write. I have a bunch of pretty solid stuff lined up, including an interview with a neuroscientist and a wanking expert,1 but due to circumstances it’s not coming out today.

My wife —  who I’m going to start calling Louise for in these newsletters because a.) that’s her name and b.) calling her “my wife” all the time made me hear Borat in my head — reminded me of that progress graph meme you’ve probably seen. If you haven’t, or need reminding, it looks like this:

I tried to find the creator of this illustration so I could attribute it to them, but it seems like it’s just one of those cliches that’s been done a million times, eventually making the leap to LinkedIn hustlebro clickbait. Which makes me want to dislike it, but just because boring people use it in their posts to bait algorithmic engagement doesn’t make it any less helpful. Although it’s reductive and banal to reduce human experience to a trendline, life does take a lot of twists and turns, and as I’ve written before, your baseline for progress shifts as you start doing better. So there’s enough truth in it for me to take comfort in it, and be comfortable passing it on.

It does make me want to write about other popular cliches, and what some of the problems with them might be.

You might have seen this one before:

The issue with this, as with so much stuff on LinkedIn and other social networks, is that it’s bullshit. I am a bit of a bird nerd, so this one really rankles. While the picture is real (it was taken by Phoo Chan, a Californian photographer) crows are not “the only bird that dares peck at an eagle.” Many self-respecting bird species will have a go at an eagle if one shows up, for extremely obvious reasons. When I was a kid, we had a pet magpie for a few years, and it used to attack hawks all the time. We’d go outside and watch the show. What’s more, the thing about “eventually the crow falls off due to a lack of oxygen” is just tripe. Eagles can fly damn high but the crow isn’t going to risk hanging around on the eagle’s back for long enough to asphyxiate.

Maybe I’m taking it too seriously, but I find it hard to take inspiration from bullshit. It’s not just that someone took it upon themselves to write up a bunch of easily-debunked lies about crows and eagles, but that people accept it so passively, while making the effort to spread it so eagerly. My only hope is that the meme has led people to do some Googling and find out not only that it’s bullshit but how awesome crows actually are.

Here’s another one you definitely know:

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Seems kind of profound, doesn’t it? It seems self-evident that if you give the worse aspects of your nature all your energy, they’ll come out on top. And I know for sure that you’ve seen the story before because it’s in damn near every email forward from Grandma and inspirational meme and panel-van-tier artwork and self-help book ever written.

Too good to be true? Of course. Scratch the surface and you’ll find pure, unadulterated bullshit. And not just ornithologically-inaccurate bullshit, but culturally-destructive colonialist bullshit.  As the Métis academic Chelsea Vowel pointed out more than a decade ago on her blog, âpihtawikosisân, the story has nothing to do with any Indigenous American culture. It seems, almost inevitably, to have originated with Christian Evangelical preachers, perhaps Billy Graham himself.

There’s a term for made-up popular wisdom that’s propagated and reposted endlessly: fakelore. And while I think the sentiment of the story is harmless and even inspiring enough — it has clearly resonated with enough people to inspire millions of posts and hundreds of thousands of bad wolf Photoshop jobs —  the effect it has on Indigenous culture is anything but helpful. Here is Vowel what fakelore can do:

The replacement of real indigenous stories with Christian-influenced, western moral tales is colonialism, no matter how you dress it up in feathers and moccasins.  It silences the real voices of native peoples by presenting listeners and readers with something safe and familiar.  And because of the wider access non-natives have to sources of media, these kinds of fake stories are literally drowning us out.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the metaphor of two wolves, but clearly, falsely attributing it to Native Americans is a problem. And if it somehow seems less resonant when you attribute it to Christian preachers rather than an imaginary wise tribal elder, that might be worth reflecting on.

So, if fake internal wolves and hypothetical crow-asphyxiating eagles aren’t good inspiration, what is?

Well, when I was Googling around for that success graph, with a phrase along the lines of “this is what progress looks like,” I found something rather lovely.

Because this is a self-improvement blog and you’re reading it, you have very likely heard of Seneca, the famous Roman Stoic from the time of Nero. If you don’t yet know of Seneca, it seems he was a decent dude (at least by the crucifixion-happy standards of Ancient Rome,) and he has the added advantage of the passage of time rendering him uncancellable. While I’ve yet to read much of his stuff, I get a kick out of the fact that his surviving writings originated as a kind of ancient equivalent to this blog: finding the good shit in the vast wastes of contemporary self-improvement scrolls and passing it on. Here he is writing to his mate Lucilius:

I shall therefore send to you the actual books; and in order that you may not waste time in searching here and there for profitable topics, I shall mark certain passages, so that you can turn at once to those which I approve and admire.

At the time of writing (somewhere around 65 CE) Seneca was exercising his highlighter on the writings of a Greek Stoic called Hecato. His stuff is mostly lost to history, but thanks to Seneca and others, we have snippets:

Meanwhile, I owe you my little daily contribution; you shall be told what pleased me to-day in the writings of Hecato; it is these words: “What progress, you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself.” That was indeed a great benefit; such a person can never be alone. You may be sure that such a man is a friend to all mankind.

Now that is something I can get behind. As with the other examples I’ve listed, you could easily accuse it of being trite, but I think it has the considerable advantage of actually having happened, as well being the sort of thing that a good therapist would probably tell you. Being a friend to yourself is important. That’s been my number one personal life lesson of the last two decades, and it turns out the ancients knew it too. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably not worth listening to.

So apart from discovering that the real friend was the one I found inside myself, what progress, you ask, have I made? I’m glad you asked. I wanted something to track what I have (and haven’t) been doing on this self-improvementish journey. I’ve tried a few habit-tracking apps in the past, and I tried a few more once I started this thing, but all of them left me cold. Many seemed to focus on the Seinfeld-inspired don’t break the streak! method, which I’ve gradually come to hate. (More about that later, maybe.) What’s more, all these underwhelming apps — glorified checklists and surveys, to be honest — seemed to really want me to pay them $16.99 USD a month in perpetuity. Fuck that. “I could do the same thing with a Google Form,” I thought, “and it’d be way more customizable, and free.”

So I did.

The Cynic’s Guide to Activity Tracking is a simple way of keeping track of my goals — writing, exercise, art — plus anything else I decide to chuck in there. It works like this: every day, a little bit of code I wrote2 sends me an email with a link to a Google Form. Here’s what it looks like.

I’m pretty proud of the result. It’s free, it works, and over the last two and a half weeks I’ve filled out the form nearly every day. As a result, I’m getting a good idea of what I’m actually getting done, summarized in a set of handy graphs. Because I’m serious about being transparent with this exercise, you can see the results in exciting spreadsheet form, if you’re so inclined.

Hmm. Art is really languishing. Best get that pie graph looking a bit less like Pac-Man. If my boy gets a good night’s sleep tonight, I might even manage some tomorrow.

So that’s it for this week. As always, let me know what you think in the comments — I love reading your feedback. Seen any good examples of fakelore lately? Or some inspirational aphorisms that aren’t fakelore? Or do you have a useful habit-tracking system you’d like to talk about? Whatever it is, I’m keen to know about it. Do the thing.

As always, this newsletter is free. All I ask for payment is that you please share it around on your favourite social media time-sinks if you think anything in it was helpful or interesting.

Thank you for reading The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement. This post is public so feel free to share it.

Thanks for reading,

Josh

Hi,

This is another personal one, I’m afraid. Bear with me.

The longer I go on with this project, the more I realise I can’t continue without telling this story. It’s the foundation for much of my interest in self-improvement, sparked by reading two self-help (or self-help-adjacent) books that worked. Plus, the last newsletter seemed to resonate with people, and I’m grateful to everyone who commented, emailed or sent messages.

These stories — the one I told last week, and this sequel — are a lot. They’re self-indulgent in the literal sense. And I’ve never told them to anyone, except in bits. If it’s weird to read, trust me, it’s much weirder to write knowing you’ll read it.

It’s a few days after the seizure and I’m lying on my back having a tooth pulled out.

It has not been a fun Christmas break. The reality of a serious health scare wasn’t made any easier by quitting a 14+ a day coffee habit cold-turkey. The resulting three-day caffeine withdrawal headache was compounded by a toothache, which grew to a degree of agony I couldn’t ignore. I suffered through a Work and Income appointment to get on the sickness benefit, and they gave me a voucher for an extraction. My tooth would have been fixable with a root canal, but neither I, my family, or apparently the Government has enough money for that.

I lie back in the chair, staring at that uncomfortably hot light, as the dentist lunges and levers at my molar. Despite being decayed to the core, it isn’t going easily. I hear bits of my jaw crack and splinter as a brawny arm and a pair of forceps blur in and out of my vision.

“Very deep root on this one,” the dentist comments, unnecessarily.

The morning after, I wake up with sore jaw and a high fever. A doctor’s visit ensues. He thinks it might be a bacterial infection from the tooth, and prescribes antibiotics.

My mum comes by to check on me, sees how upset and run-down I am, and prescribes St. Johns Wort. She also suggests I stay at her place for a few days to recuperate. It’s a good idea. I’ve been Googling what might have caused my seizure while I wait for the slow gears of the health system to turn and give me the diagnostic MRI and EEG I need to rule out anything sinister, and it’s been freaking me out. So I raid the local video rental place for a mixture of new and favourite DVDs and set myself a goal to curl up and do not much. Originally, I’d intended to help my stepdad out with some house-painting but I find myself strangely unable to do anything. Whatever I try, I find myself dizzy and panicking, terrified that another seizure is coming on.

I set up a TV nest and start making my way through the stack of videos. Feeling like I am being looked after seems to be making a difference. Perhaps I’ll be okay. Perhaps I am getting better.

But as I watch Dr Strangelove I start feeling really weird.

I wait, heart pounding, trembling, waiting for the world to spin and the ground to lunge up and hit me.

But it doesn’t.

I turn the movie off, tell Mum I’m not feeling well,  lie down on a mattress in the spare room.

The weirdness doesn’t subside. It gets worse.

I feel my whole body buzzing, like electricity coursing through every limb. Something deep in me seems to seethe and hiss.

There’s a sudden jumping sensation under my skin, in one of my legs.

What the fuck? I didn’t imagine that.

Then, quick as thought, there is another one. Different leg. A squirming, liquid twitch.

Then my arm.

Then my leg.

Then everywhere.

I lie there, fully conscious, paralyzed by horror, as the muscles under my skin writhe like I am a bag full of worms.

I should have listened to Safety Sam, I think.

***

When I get back to Dad’s place, to the backyard tent my brothers and I currently call home, I get on Google. The awful writhing sensation has lessened from its first abrupt intensity but it’s still going on. It’s like when you’re tired and the muscles under your eye twitch, but everywhere, in every limb, all at once.

The muscle twitches are called “fasciculations,” Google tells me. So I search for something like “fasciculation seizure symptoms.”

I still remember the shock of raw nausea I felt when I saw what fasciculations were a symptom of.

There aren’t really any good diseases, but among them, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is one of the least good ones. Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, ALS is one of the most awful things that can happen to a person. It robs victims of the ability to walk, move, speak, and breathe, usually in that order, while cruelly leaving the mind completely intact. Stephen Hawking was the most well-known ALS patient, and (I learn, as I frantically read page after page) he was almost unique in living for decades with the disease. Most people who contract it die within a few years.

There are other things it could be, of course. Like multiple sclerosis. Also awful, but I figured I’ll settle for that if I have to.

Well, if I was going to die of diaphragm paralysis or pneumonia while my mind remains trapped in a paralyzed body, I’d best live life to the full. You fucker, get up, come on.

I get a job at a local electronics retailer to save up money while I wait to find out if I’ve gotten into a.) a journalism degree and b.) a paid job at the Waikato University student magazine. If I get both, I’ll move back to Hamilton and become the next Tom Wolfe. If I don’t, well, Kerikeri and discounted electronics will do fine until I’ve saved enough money to travel overseas.

I’ve gone to see the doctor again, several times in fact, but they say the twitches are probably nothing to worry about. (Inconveniently, they seem to vanish when I needed to show them to anyone, only to start up again as soon as I left the doctor’s office.) The doctor says I’m suffering from anxiety and depression, and gives me some pills for it.

I take my first dose of those pills the night before I start at my new electronics jockey job. Instead of sleeping, I have something like a six-hour waking nightmare.

In the morning, Dad unzips the tent. I haven’t had a wink of sleep. I’m terrified another seizure is on the way. Twitches run hot under my skin.

“Do you need a lift in to work?”

“I can’t go,” I say. “I haven’t had any sleep. I feel terrible. I’m twitching all over. I’m really worried something bad will happen again.”

“You’ve got to go,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

I get up. Despite spending the entire day feeling like I am underwater, I make it through. I even keep the job. I never take the pills again, though.

Now, I wonder — if I had kept up the meds, would the next ten years have been different?

My mum takes me to my medical appointments. First is an electroencephalogram, or EEG. After a night of intentional sleep deprivation, they’ll stick electrodes all over my skull, put me in a chair, and pulse strobe lights into my eyes to try and provoke a seizure. At least sleep deprivation isn’t hard to achieve. My childhood terror of not getting enough sleep has returned with reinforcements, and I’ve been making every excuse to get to bed before ten, but it isn’t helping. If anything, my sleep is getting worse. A lot of nights I’m not sure if I’m getting any at all.

The twitches thrill through my limbs as I lie on the chair. The technician seems bored. “Can’t you see that on the machine?” I ask.

“See what?”

“The muscle twitches.”

“No, this just reads your brainwaves,” the technician says.

They strobe me with buzzing pulses of bright light.  It makes strange, intricate, geometric patterns in my eyes. I am frightened and ask if it’s okay to shut them. The technician says this won’t make a difference.

I didn’t have a seizure, but the twitches seem to be working their way deeper. Sometimes an enormous muscle, like my calf or quad, will leap, with an almost audible thump.

I know something is horribly wrong. How could it not be?

When you can’t sleep properly, life becomes a series of disconnected events. My memories of this time are like reflections in broken glass. Splinters and shards, with sharp, jagged edges.

Back at the doctor’s. “I can’t sleep.”

A prescription for sleeping pills.

My dad’s wife, my stepmother, is furious. The backyard tent I am staying in with my brothers isn’t distance enough for her. Six young adults are staying here: her two children, my brothers and sister, me. Now my dad’s kids are no longer welcome.

To my father, an ultimatum; us or her. Now.

Her.

My dad, in tears. I hug him, tell him it’s not his fault. “It’s OK, we’ll go.”

I move into a caravan on a friend’s property.

When people ask me what’s up I try the phrase kicked out of home on for size.

The twitches are worse and keep me awake at night.

I try not to take too many sleeping pills, as I know they are addictive, but sometimes at 3 AM I can’t help myself.

I need some sleep, I reasoned, or how will I function?

I gain entry to the journalism degree, and get the job at the student magazine. I leave the riveting world of electronics retail and move back to Hamilton. My dad, scraping the bottom of his financial barrel, buys me a bike as a gift, as my driving status is still in doubt.

I stay with some Christian family friends for a bit, before they politely suggest I find a flat. In fact, they find one for me. I find myself living with a Christian vegan man of about 40, his 20-ish-year-old Christian vegan fiancee, their teenage Christian vegan friend who is like a frightened mouse and spends every waking second with the other  two, like they’re all married to each other.

They hate my guts.

I hole up with my computer. I play a lot of videogames.

Eventually, they kick me out for making beef-flavoured two minute noodles in a Christian vegan pot.

The neurologist is kind but bored. He has the air of a man who has much bigger fish to fry.

“It’s good news,” he says. “Your EEG and your MRI have come up fine.”

“Does that mean I don’t have epilepsy?” I ask.

“We don’t think you do,” he says. “You can go back to driving. Back to normal.”

I don’t feel normal. “What about the twitches? Don’t they mean anything? Couldn’t they be” — I hesitate, scared to say the word — “ALS?”

He frowned. “ALS doesn’t present with seizures,” he says, shortly. “The fasciculations are probably benign. Anxiety probably makes them worse. Try not to worry about them.”

Still trying to live life to the full. A friend with an entrepreneurial flair has a great idea. “Hey, imagine outdoor equipment advertising flyers, but with articles alongside! I think this is honestly my best idea yet,” he says, in a series of text messages.

He’s invented the magazine. But it’s a good idea and I reckon there’s a gap in the market. What spare time I have from my day job at the student rag and my journalism course goes to the new magazine, which we call Intrepid.

My new flatmates are as chill as my old ones were uptight. They smoke up and watch Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon. I now live in a converted bathroom with tin cans nailed over the floor to stop rats. Despite this, slugs still find a way inside. They crawl up the walls and eat my posters.

These flatmates love a party. They throw one about once a fortnight.

Journalism school. Teeline shorthand classes are at 8 AM. Core classes usually start later.

I don’t often make it to Teeline.

I’m at my computer, slugging through a news writing assignment, when it happens. My head buzzes, like my brain has licked a nine-volt battery. I look around frantically. Still conscious. No lost time. Microsoft Word cursor right where it was.

I get up, bolt to the bathroom. Sit on the toilet, pants on, waiting. Would something happen, like it had happened before?

Nothing.

A muscle twitches under my jaw.

I go back to class. Instead of the assignment, I Google “feeling like electric shock in brain.”

The results, as always, are dismaying.

My flatmates and I have moved into a new house, where they have discovered the wonderful world of pure methamphetamine. It’s increased their party frequency to about three times a week. The night before an exam, I am trying to sleep — failing, as usual — when there’s a crash of doors opening and screeches of laughter from downstairs. Another fucking party.

I lose it. Shirtless, I thunder downstairs and, snarling and swearing in a fury, scream about a dozen people out of the house.

I go back to bed, the place quiet now, but my arms and legs loud with the maddening, ceaseless twitches.

My friend has moved mountains and our magazine has real advertisers and revenue and we’re actually getting some good high-profile interviews. And I’m failing at it. Every time I sit down to write I start feeling sick.

Zap. Zap. Zap.

Twitch. Twitch. Twitch.

My flatmates are getting worse so I start sleeping at the office.

One day my friend walks in on me dozing on a bed made of couch cushions.

“You’ve got to stop doing this, man,” he says, shaking his head.

He takes over as editor. The magazine lasts at least another year.

Despite comprehensively failing Teeline shorthand, I manage to land an internship at a local newspaper. Each day the editor picks me up at 5 AM.

I drive all over the countryside, sniffing out stories about stone production at a local quarry, or a furore over ratepayer money being used for a local art gallery. Despite everything, it’s interesting. But the lack of sleep is wrecking me.

I write several stories a day, my brain buzzing insistently. It’s gone from a few times a week to once or more every hour.

I can’t get a job in journalism. I tell people it’s just a bad time in the industry, and it is, but the fact is I don’t try hard enough. The idea of irregular hours, lack of sleep, and and stress horrifies me.

I apply for lots of other jobs, but nothing works. So I turn my CV into a comic book as a stunt, and this — finally — gets me some calls.

I land a job doing copywriting for a local digital agency.

Things aren’t going well.

The job has turned into a kind of hell. My co-workers are quitting. With the business under pressure to account for every dollar, the job of time-keeping has been delegated to an anal-retentive programmer in the Auckland office who has embraced his new role with enthusiasm. He’s coded a time-sheet program from scratch that we all have to use.

I am now required to time-sheet my toilet breaks.

But I’m sick as fuck. I’m calling in ill constantly. Brain zaps are coming ever few minutes. Odd little black or blue blips, like transient asterisks, sometimes appear in my vision. I’m frequently overcome by an urge to sleep so strong I can’t resist it. There’s an armchair in a lounge set aside for client meetings and I sink into it and pass out for twenty minutes or more. One day, the horrible programmer from Auckland calls to harangue me about a time-sheet. I try to argue with him and instead of words, there’s a torrent of gibberish.

I slump across the desk.

Another doctor. My girlfriend comes with me as support.

“I’ll be honest: I am worried,” the doctor says. “I want you to go back to the specialist for more tests.”

My boss tells me me to take a leave of absence. I take a few weeks off and feel a bit better. I ask if I can come back to work part-time.

For this, I am fired.

The new EEG results are marginal enough that the neurologist says I should start on medication.

It makes me feel queasy and tired. I spend a lot of time in bed, sometimes entire days. My hair starts falling out, ahead of schedule. It’s one of the known side effects.

I have to bike everywhere. I start keeping a tally of all the weird shit drivers do to people on bikes. Drivers swear at me, swerve at me. On one memorable occasion someone throws lemons.

When we go further afield, my girlfriend has to drive us.

I’ve bused up to Auckland to visit the Armageddon Expo with a mate and, of course, I can’t sleep. This always happens. Whenever there’s an event on, I find myself awake all night.

Desperate, in the early morning hours, I search online. I find a positive review for a self-help book called The Effortless Sleep Method by Sasha Stephens. With nothing to lose but more sleep, I buy the book and read it on my phone.

Despite coming across as a bit woo for my jaded tastes — the book contains several credulous references to ghosts, for some reason — the central premise seems sound; the reason I’m not sleeping is because I’m worried about not sleeping. If I stop worrying about not sleeping, I’ll sleep.

A paradox. An obvious one, too. But for some reason the book comforts me. Perhaps it’s just the right kind of boring. After reading a few chapters, I have the best sleep I’ve had in years.

And once I’m home again, and I start following the advice in the book, it happens again. And again.

New jobs, new doctors, another MRI, new EEGs. I ride my bike to a new specialist appointment.

“We don’t think you’ve got epilepsy,” says the new neurologist. The EEG is a sensitive machine, and it turns out the one that gave me my marginal reading had been over-reporting the electrical activity in my head.

I can drive again. I celebrate by riding my bike to a skatepark and doing some mildly dangerous shit, stuff I haven’t dared to do for years.

But: the brain zaps, the muscle twitches, the visual disturbances, the dizzy spells. They never stop.

After trying and failing to get by as a freelance journalist, I’m about ready to give up on writing. I apply for a marketing job in Auckland and, to my massive surprise, I get an offer, on my birthday.

On the same day, the local newspaper calls and offers me a job as a feature writer. A high profile, travel, perks, more money than I’ve ever been offered in my life. My dream job.

I take the marketing job. My wife and I move to Auckland.

I’m much better than I was. Sleep isn’t the demon it used to be. But the twitches and brain zaps are still there and from time to time they flare up and drive me mad.

I get a new doctor who’s neither dismissive nor panicky. He’s calm and measured and he listens. His name is Sam.

He says: let’s get the tests done, then consider what else it might be.

He books me with a neurologist to do a deeply uncomfortable test. Here is how it works: the doctor inserts needles under your skin, all over your body, which are wired to a machine. The machine records the reactions of your muscles. Elsewhere, electrodes are placed to shock your muscles into action.

This is called electromyography, but I think of it as the Electric Needle ALS Test.

It is painful, but interesting. The machine buzzes and pips when I move my muscles, or when a twitch makes them jump.

The results come quickly and they are conclusive. Of course, I don’t have ALS, or anything like it.

In fact, I’m fine.

So what the fuck is going on?

The twitches are real. I’ve even managed to catch them on video a few times, as if to prove to myself that I’m not imagining them. But if there’s no underlying condition, what could be causing them?

One night, an old Simpsons episode gives me a clue.

“You see, class, my Lyme disease turned out to be psy-cho-somatic,” explains Miss Hoover to her class.

“Does that mean you’re crazy?” asks a child.

“No, that means she was faking it!” says another.

“No, actually, it was a little of both,” says Miss Hoover.

I laugh at the episode, like I’ve done many times before. It’s a brilliant gag. But now I wonder if there might be something more to it.

One day, reading a news site, a review catches my eye. It is for a book called It’s All In Your Head by a neurologist called Suzanne O’Sullivan.

The book is fascinating, and I read it in a couple of sittings. It’s a series of case histories of psychosomatic illness, all of which are harrowing, intense, and remarkable. It revealed something I’d never known about psychosomatic illness; it happens not because someone is faking for attention, but because some part of the person’s psyche — often something they are not consciously aware of — is literally making them sick. It is mental illness made physical. The more intense effects can include blindness, fatigue, weakness, pins and needles, numbness. Even (I realise with a shock and a brief feeling of dizziness) seizures. Psychosomatic illness, it turns out, is real. What’s more, it affects huge swathes of people, and there is a persistent lack of understanding about it from both doctors and patients. Patients often react in fury at the suggestion that their illness might be, as the title of the book puts it, all in their head. And yet, when all other avenues are exhausted, it often is.

More than ten years after the seizure, after the twitches started their maddening, endless race around my limbs, I wonder: could this be what is happening to me?

I call my doctor, Sam, and he refers me to a different kind of specialist.

It’s more than five years later, five years since that referral, after I first picked up the phone in a break room at work and (hands shaking, twitches buzzing from head to toe) called a therapist — a former GP who now specialised in what are sometimes called mind-body illnesses. Five years of therapy have helped tremendously. I now know what was happening to me, and whose fault it was.

It was Safety Sam all along.

When it comes to the workings of the mind, we almost always find ourselves dealing in metaphors. Stories, it turns out, can both create and unpack trauma. So while I don’t think this story is literally true (I don’t think actual cartoon kids with pith helmets are living in my head) the metaphor works for me, and it gels well enough with much of what we know about the mind.

My story is that when my world fell apart with the loss of my faith and health all at once, an old part of my mind — a member of a kind of internal committee — tried to take charge. If you’ve seen the Pixar film Inside Out, you’ll know what I’m talking about.1

Our brains sort of work in layers, each layer coming online as we grow and get older. When I read Safety Sam and his comic-strip stories about the need for sleep as a child, it sunk in deep. That obsessive worry became part of me, and my ideas about health, safety, and sleep were frozen in time.

Now that part of me was awake and active, without my conscious mind having the slightest idea. It was like a little child lost in a mall, with all the tumultuous business and confusion of adult life going on around it. Despite being confused, and frightened, this brave kid knew he had a job to do: make me look after myself. Cut off from the higher levels of the brain that are capable of executive function and reflective thought, Safety Sam did the only thing he knew how.

He got into the control room and started mashing the keyboards.

Down with the sickness

I’ve been writing for a few hours now and I need to wrap this up from tiredness as much as anything. If you got this far, thanks again for sticking around. Perhaps you’d enjoy some smooth jazz tunes as a chaser?

It’s my hope that anyone who has suffered the extremely real and often dramatically delibitating effects of psychosomatic illness will find a bit of help here, because it’s still not something that’s openly talked about. But it’s very common. In fact, mind-body interactions are everyday stuff. Bodily reactions like blushing2 and breaking into a panicky sweat happen all the time, yet they’re entirely based on things in your head. Brains and bodies are not seperate in the way that we tend to believe, and I’m happy to do what I can to lift the stigma.3

Thanks for reading. This newsletter is free, so if you liked it, please share it with someone who you think might get something useful out of it.

Any questions, just hit me up in the comments. I’ll try and answer all I can.

I’m already feeling a bit dizzy. I know why — this often happens when this train of thought arrives — but I can handle it.

I think.

Deep breath.

This isn’t a story I’ve told before. My wife knows a lot of the details, my family and closest friends know some. But I’ve never sat down and written it all out, so I expect there’s some new information even for the people who know me best.

I’ve dropped a few hints, and shared some details. Here’s what I wrote for Webworm back in 2021, in a piece about leaving Evangelical Christianity that (until what you’re reading right now) was probably the most personal thing I’d ever written.

It happened to me. The cracks grew, then my faith — my worldview, my culture, my personality — shattered almost overnight into a billion irrecoverable shards. I couldn’t get any aspect of it back. It was gone. My entire life, I’d been talking to God, loving God, like he was a parent. Then, one day, he was worse than dead. He’d never really been there. I realised that who I’d been talking to was just… myself. There was no-one else. Just me, and the echoes in my head.

I would not wish this experience on my worst enemy. When I left the church I lost all but one of my close friends. I’d always been an anxious person and the gap in my life left by faith was eagerly filled by what, in hindsight, was fairly serious mental illness. I functioned, I found new friends, but my health suffered terribly for over a decade.

Here’s the other part of that story.

When I was a kid my sister and I were homeschooled by my mum for a couple of years. The horrible Christian school I’d attended had got too expensive, and probably also a bit too horrible. By way of example: the school used the A.C.E curriculum, which expected children to sit and work silently in tiny, 3-walled cubicles. You had to put up a little flag on your cubicle if you wanted to leave for any reason, and you had to wait for the attendant — teacher is too strong a word — to notice your flag and give you permission to leave. One day, I had to go to the toilet to pee, and my flag wasn’t noticed. I waved it frantically and yelled. No-one responded. So I broke the rules and ran to the bathroom, wetting my pants half-way there.

I was about six. I’ve never forgotten the awful shame of the bow-legged walk back to my desk —  only to get in trouble for leaving without asking.

So, homeschooling. Mum was determined to do a better job than that awful school had, and to her credit, she mostly did. I learned a lot more with her teaching me than I’d managed at school. But it was far from perfect. She got my sister and I another American booklet-based school curriculum called Abeka, and part of the course was called Health, Safety and Manners. This book featured a little dude in a problematic pith helmet called Safety Sam, a dog, whose name I’ve forgotten, and two little turds called the Manners Twins.

I instinctively disliked the Manners Twins, but I liked Safety Sam. He had a cool helmet, and a good dog, and he seemed to know his stuff. So when he told me, in comic strip form, that if you didn’t get a full 8 to 10 hours sleep or thereabouts every night you could die, I lost my tiny little mind.

I was a very literal-minded kid, and I took health stuff very seriously. There wasn’t much I didn’t find a way to worry about. I once read an account in Readers Digest about a middle-aged man who’d suffered a heart attack and freaked myself into thinking I had coronary disease. I told my parents about this, and I’m not sure how they kept a straight face.  We had a stethescope in the house for some reason and my dad took the opportunity to put it on and listen to my heart. I waited anxiously for the diagnosis. My dad’s face was grave.

“Son, I have very bad news for you.”

I almost died on the spot. If he’d still had the stethescope on he’d have heard my heart backflip and then race up to 250 bpm.

“You’re just fine,” he said, and laughed.

I didn’t think it was funny.

So, sleep problems. A mixture of Safety Sam’s well-meaning advice and worrying about other health problems — heart disease, brain tumours, whether or not I had accidentally cursed the Holy Spirit and was condemned to hell for all eternity — meant that I suffered horrible insomnia, from the age of about eight on to God knows when. I still got enough sleep, probably, but it took me forever to get to sleep, and consequently I developed an overwhelming obsession with getting to bed early.  We’d be at a family party, the other kids would be hyped to be up past their 8 o’clock bedtimes, and I’d be casting around looking for a place to nap, or begging my parents to take me home so I’d be able to get to sleep (and not die).

Once I grew into my teens I started to get over it. I found some friends that put up with my less-weird quirks and worked assidously to sand off some of the rougher edges. The sleep thing was one of them. Over time, I started to like staying up late,  rebelling against Safety Sam and his overzealous advice. After not waking up dead after several late nights in a row I discovered, as a lot of teens do, that I was a natural night owl. I’d regularly stay up and read past 2 AM. That created its own problems, like the fact that I could barely stay awake in school. I quite often fell asleep in morning classes and got mocked for it by students and teachers alike.

Once I started at Uni, it didn’t make any sense to break the pattern. There were parties to go to and even occasional study binges. I pulled most-nighters or all-nighters fairly often, fuelled by an absolutely spectacular caffeine habit.  I once stayed up all night working on a law assignment because I wanted to go snowboarding the next day. Halfway through, I got frustrated at my slow progress, so I forced myself to learn touch-typing as I went, reasoning that it wasn’t going to make me any slower. By the time dawn stirred itself, I had a completed assignment, a roaring headache, and the ability to touch-type. My friend and I went snowboarding as planned. I can’t remember the mark I got for the assignment, but it was good enough to pass.

Deep breath. You’re OK.

The funny thing with some traumas is that they might appear trivial or comical to outsiders while, inside yourself, they’re among the most consequential of the things that make you you. I don’t know how this one comes off, because like I said, I’ve never told it. And as always, I try to tell it funny, because what else can I do?

Any other way might feel too real, or hurt too much.

Working in bars was a natural progression in my second year of Uni. I was already an owl, and I needed money to live. It all made sense. I’d make room for the work at night and all the things I needed to get done during the day, helped by my faithful ally, caffeine. It had always worked before. Here is how I put it in a piece I wrote for a lifestyle magazine a few years ago:

Before quitting, I used coffee to not be tired during the day. Because I worked nights at a bar and had terrible insomnia, I was always tired, so I drank a lot. When coffee was unavailable I found other sources of caffeine. At the bar, V and Red Bull were always handy. I chugged them whenever I could. This, combined with seldom sleeping, a smoking habit and regular 5am drinking sessions conspired against me.

This is the bit I’ve never managed to tell before, but now I write it down, it’s coming out easy, because this story has been read by me to me in my mind a hundred thousand times.

I wasn’t quite well, you see. Something was up. In a far cry from my health-obsession days, I did my best to ignore it. The most obvious thing was a bad tooth. A piece of a molar had broken off and now there was a constant pain that I kept on top of by mainlining aspirin and chewing gum to cover up the horrible breath that I was acutely conscious of. But I couldn’t afford to get a root canal, so I worked most nights at the bar to save up. In addition to this, I was working on my Law exams — but I’d also decided to quit law and study journalism, and that required a fair bit of admin. And then there was volunteering for the student newspaper, and a friend and I were writing and preparing to shoot a short film, and I’m sure there was other stuff. I was a being productive, so damn Safety Sam and his bullshit! I didn’t have time to slack off!

I’d taken up running during the night, because I was feeling crook and figured exercise might help. You see some deeply unnerving things, running at midnight. I once saw a teenage girl crying her heart out in the gutter, as the sound of screams and crashing came from the house she was facing.

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” I asked. She leaped in fright.

“No! No, it’s all right. I’m sorry. Go away, please,” she said, shaking.

After that I realised that running around neighbourhoods at midnight made me an unnerving thing. But that wasn’t the strangest thing I did. One night, I suddenly threw myself to the ground and started beating and clawing at it, howling into the dirt. I remember doing this quite clearly. Part of me was in agony, and another part — a rational, dispassionate bit — was unimpressed. “Pick yourself up. Pull yourself together. Come on. What if someone sees?”

I still don’t quite know why I did this. It’s still incredibly embarrasing to remember, let alone admit to. Perhaps it was a precursor of what was coming. Some deep part of my mind was trying to warn me. Compounding the health and sleep troubles was the fact that I was slowly breaking up with Jesus, on account of him being long-dead and me realising that basing a substantial portion of my life around an ancient Middle Eastern god didn’t make all that much sense. Maybe it was all making me go slightly mad. It makes sense, writing about it now.

Deep breath. You’re OK. This is just a memory, it can’t hurt you. (Well, it sort of can, but we’ll get to that.)

It happened the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve, I liked to call it. I’d called my dad the previous night, December 22nd. I’d drive up to Kerikeri with my cousin on Christmas Eve proper, I said, but I wanted to work Christmas Eve Eve because I’d get double pay. Then I’d finally be able to get my tooth fixed, and maybe buy some presents for the family as well.

I woke up that morning at 7 am, having worked the previous night until about 5 am, smashing free V energy drinks the whole while. I hadn’t managed to sleep much, if at all, because I was nervous. In order to transfer from Law into Journalism I needed to go to an interview with two course tutors and explain why I’d be a good candidate, and the interview was early in the morning. At about 8 am, if I remember correctly.

I showered, shaved, cleaned my teeth (ow), drove to the interview. I didn’t have time for breakfast so I ate a Moro bar and slugged two coffees and chewed gum.

I have no memory of the interview besides sitting down and facing the two interviewers. I assume I did well, because they let me in to the course. I’d find that out later, after my hospital stay.

I went home. I felt terrible, so I had another coffee. I thought about sleeping, but my friend Jamie was coming over so we could work on our mockumentary movie script, which had the working title Kung Fu Survivor: Enter The Fu. So I watched Desperado, the Robert Rodriguez film starring Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek.

I don’t remember much of the film because my head was doing something odd. It was periodically buzzing, like my brain was receiving sudden snatches of activity broadcast from a beehive. In between whatever this was, it felt like it was full of cotton wool. It was as if sound and sight weren’t working right.

This wouldn’t do. Jamie was due over soon. I knew the fix; something I’d done several times before when I was really tired.

I put on the song Die, All Right! by The Hives and moshed like a motherfucker.1

When I say moshed, I really mean it. I thrashed my head around like a dog with a rat. Fuck my sleepy brain! It would wake up if it knew what was good for it.

Then, and I don’t know where this came from, I got the idea that Jamie wanted to meet me at the University library. I lived in a flat one block and one playing field away, so I decided to walk out to meet him there.

About halfway across the field I started to feel really strange. Colours worked differently. Trees loomed. The sky moved in a way that the sky shouldn’t and doesn’t move. The ground seemed to want to get to know me better.

I took a step. I stumbled. I was really dizzy.

I must be drunk. But that’s odd, because I’d only had a couple the previous night. This must be what LSD is like. I remember thinking that quite clearly.

I took another step. I tripped. I think.

I fixed my eyes on one of the playing field fenceposts about a hundred metres away. If I could reach that, I would sit down. I’d be okay. I took several steps towards it.

The world swam and spun

and

and

i am walking and i

where

I

how did i

i am not but i

a glimpse in a (mirror?) glass – window? i am

i am in dirt covered and with scratches and my face i am bleeding from my mouth and the blood has gone down my (split) lip and mixed with spit and foam and dribbled  all on my shirt and

i am not this, I am

. somewhere and

lurch and crash and stumble and horrified who was that

. people lift me and

are you okay? oh my god, are

walk in g h om  e

my Nokia phone chirps the text message tone

“Where are you? I’m at your place.”

i am in the field

…where is my hat?

texting “sorary I though hat you were at Uni Im combing back home now See you there”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Jamie asked me, as I lurched into the lounge room, probably. I don’t remember much of this bit, it’s mostly recollected from what Jamie told me later.

“I was drunk,” I said. “Must have passed out in the playing field.”

“You’re bleeding. You’ve got blood all down your shirt.”

“I was in a fight,” I said.

I should stress that I was not lying, not intentionally. My memory of the past few hours had been wiped and it wouldn’t come back for a while yet. In the meantime, my brain was frantically filling in the blanks with things it thought made sense.

But despite the effort I wasn’t making much sense at all, so a writing session was out. Instead, I changed my shirt and we got in Jamie’s car and headed to the Warehouse to get some supplies we needed for the film.

We walked around the Warehouse and I tried to make conversation. Slowly, I was realising something had gone hideously wrong. My lip hurt and my mouth was still full of blood. I felt sick. We got back in Jamie’s car. Memories started to come online, like the lights when you flip the breakers after an outage.

“I don’t think I was in a fight,” I said.

Jamie looked at me. “No shit.” The bar had me work as a bouncer on a quiet door sometimes when they were short-staffed, with a giant overcoat to hide my lanky frame, but I wasn’t the fighting type and Jamie knew it.

“I don’t think I was drunk,” I said. “Something happened. Something… happened. I think I need to see a doctor.”

He drove me without question to the nearest doctor’s surgery. It was going to be the emergency room, but we spotted a doctor’s on the way. They saw me immediately.

The doctor was brisk but kind. He listened to my halting story, now mostly complete with the actual events of the morning and some I wasn’t sure about, looked in my mouth, stitched up my lip, and asked questions.

“Do you take drugs? Specifically P, pure methamphetamine?”

“No, never.”

“Really? Please tell me if you do, there won’t be any legal trouble. Everything you tell me is confidential.”

“Honestly, no. I smoke a bit of weed every now and then. I smoke cigarettes a bit. And I drink a lot of coffee. Pretty normal,” I said.

“How much coffee?”

“I dunno,” I said. “If you’re counting the energy drinks, probably about… 14 a day?”

“Hmm. That’s a lot. You should cut down.” A note. “Have you had a history of epilepsy?” he asked. No, I said.

“Well, I think you’ve had a grand mal seizure,” he said. “Except we call them tonic-clonic, these days.”

I felt my heart flip out and remembered that eldritch burst of colour and light or was it happening again right now? Is it happening again, right now? and I got dizzy again. I get dizzy again, as I write.

Deep breath.

“Doesn’t this mean that I have… a brain tumour, or something?” I asked.

“Not necessarily. It’s pretty unlikely, actually,” he said. “It’s more likely to be lifestyle factors, from what you’ve told me.”

Oh my God, I think, Safety Sam was right!

I breathed. “Alright. That’s good. I have to drive up to Northland, actually.”

“But I think we should send you to hospital anyway. Oh, and you can’t drive anymore.”

“I can’t drive tomorrow?”

“You can’t drive at all.”

I can’t remember if there was an ambulance ride to the hospital or if Jamie took me. I should ask him. Say thanks, in case I didn’t before.

Once admitted, I called my dad to say I wouldn’t be coming up tomorrow, like I’d planned. I didn’t know how to say it, so I tried to sound casual and chirpy.

“Why can’t you drive up? What’s wrong?”

I could hear the tension in his voice.

“I’m in, um, hospital. Uh, they think I had a seizure.”

I heard my father’s voice break over the phone.

“My son!” he cried. “Oh, my son, my son!”

“I’m okay! I’m okay, Dad. They just need me overnight for observation.” He cried. I think he said a prayer for me. I think he said he’d come pick me up. I wish I could remember.

The following morning, one of the neurologists came to see me with some interns following him around. Just like on Scrubs!  He asked if they could observe as part of their training and I said I didn’t mind. He asked me a few questions about how I was doing and then turned to the crew of junior doctors.

“Now, a case history. This young man’s story has similarities to that of a woman with no prior history of epilepsy who drove off the road at sunset, after suffering a tonic-clonic seizure. What might have triggered it?”

The students conferred. From my bed, I spoke up.

“It was a photosensitive seizure,” I said. “The sun was low, she was driving past trees, and they created a strobing effect.”

Silence. There might have been at least one low-hanging jaw.

“That’s exactly right,” the neurologist said. “Um, are you a medical student?”

“No,” I said. “I was studying law, but I’m going to do journalism.”

“I think you’ll be good at it,” he said.

I wish he’d been right.

Unfortunately, the next ten years or so of bizarre health problems were going to get in the way a bit.

I’m not sure how I got home from the hospital in Hamilton to Kerikeri. I think my dad drove most of the night to pick me up, but after the hospital, I don’t remember much. I don’t remember that Christmas or the days following at all, until a couple of weeks later where the memories get very, very vivid for less-than-ideal reasons.

Breathe. You wrote it down. You’re still here.

I don’t know how hard that is to believe, but it all really happened. Some bits are sketchy. I am not sure if the memory of me staring at my bloodied reflection is real, but I think it is. I definitely lost my hat. And I know that detail with the neurologist and his crew comes off exactly like one of those “and then everybody clapped!” fake stories made up for internet points, and I’m aware that I had some light brain damage at the time, but it did happen just how I’ve told it. And I’m glad it did, because it was reassurance I desperately needed that my brain still worked, that I was still me.

The reason I knew the answer, of course, was videogames. I’d seen the “PHOTOSENSITIVE EPILEPSY WARNING” displayed thousands of times when starting a console to play Halo or another game, and I’d often thought that the strobing from low sun coming through trees might set a sensitive driver off. In high school I’d even invented an (intentionally) stupid superhero called The Amazing Sockhead who used strobes to knock out baddies.

At this point you may be asking yourself “But what does this intensely personal story of a deep but very insignificant-in-the-scheme-of-things trauma have to do with self-improvement?” and the answer is, well, a lot.

I was trying to hustle, in my own ridiculous way, and I burned out so hard that my brain flickered like a guttering candle and — briefly — went out. And this tanked religion for me once and for all. Despite smartass hospital ward stories, I am no neurologist, so take what follows with a pinch of salt. To the best of my understanding, a tonic-clonic seizure is a little (and only if you are lucky) like turning a computer off then on again. For a moment, I was off, and the nothingness on the other side of consciousness that I experienced was the last straw for my tottering Christian faith. I went from believing at least loosely in a Heaven, to being convinced that there was a no-thing endlessness on the other side. I often wonder what might have happened had I had that seizure on my 400-odd-kilometre drive from Hamilton to Kerikeri, instead of in a playing field. I would probably be dead. It makes me feel that for a brief moment, I stood on the edge of a precipice and peered into the void.

I do not recommend it.

The seizure set off an extraordinary host of horrible health shit, including the return of my childhood sleep anxiety and insomnia, the eventual cure for which came from a self-help book! Yes, it does sometimes work. I’ll write about that next time. But if you’ve made it this far, I want to try to reassure you:

Unless you have a known, pre-existing epileptic condition, a night (or even quite a few nights) of poor quality sleep are unlikely to set off a seizure or anything remotely like one.

My experience was not just a night or two of bad sleep. It was years and years of bad sleep compounding with a genuinely excessive caffeine habit, poor-quality food, smoking, drinking, a terrible job, a terrible work environment, terrible stress and burnout, unhelped mental health issues, losing God as abruptly as a smartphone dropped from a rollercoaster, and like five actual minutes of frantic head-banging, and possibly more that I’ve forgotten to mention.

And, despite everything — despite the intense (mental) health stuff that followed and insomnia and becoming a parent with all the attendant sleep issues and much more besides — I have never had another seizure.

Spoiler warning for the next newsletter, I guess.

Breathe. It was nearly twenty years ago. You’re okay.

Hi,

I’m writing this in a haze of sleep deprivation, only slightly offset by a coffee so strong it’s probably illegal in multiple countries.

It began when my wife went out at 3 AM to direct a dawn performance of The Taming of the Shrew. (I’m all for the glorious traditions of amateur Shakespeare, but in my opinion the dawn performance can curl up in a ditch and die.) About ten minutes after she left, my toddler woke up yelling. The normal cuddles and pats wouldn’t settle him so I let him hop into the Big Bed for a snooze. He, for the first time ever, promptly fell out. More yelling, checking for blood and lumps and concussion — and once he eventually did fall asleep, the Sleep Conspiracy began.

I think everyone who’s been alive long enough, not just parents of toddlers, have experienced nights that conspired against sleep. You’re almost nodding off when a mosquito makes an appearance. You hunt it down and swat it (or, if you’re a boomer, kill it with two full cans of fly spray) and just as you’re nodding off some unwelcome train of thought chugs into your head. I can’t remember the specific one that bothered me last night, so let’s pretend (very realistically) that I’m worried about what will happen if I spend a year writing this bloody newsletter without anything to show for it.

Once that thought left the station, after about an hour, the minor auditory hallucinations began, with my stupefied brain deciding that the white noise from my fan was actually my son crying.

I turned off the fan, and finally began to drift off.

Then my son did actually start crying.

After he was sorted out again, the local spur-winged plover coven decided now was a perfect time to start role-playing someone’s brutal murder.

I like birds, but not at 5:30 AM.

It’s now 2:30 PM, I am viciously tired, the kind of tired that makes you feel like the air is oil and your head is full of spiders, so tired that I think I’ll take a nap now and try this writing caper again when I’m

(Newsletter writing resumes, one day later.)

I didn’t actually manage to take a nap, because the toddler didn’t either and he kept me up by singing adorable, infuriating songs to himself for an hour and a half. Luckily, in the evening, I had the opportunity for an early night.

I didn’t take it.

In this, today is like the vast majority of the last 7,304 days, during which I have sworn to myself that I will, at long last, get to bed early. Or, at least, at a reasonable hour.

I almost never do. There are a variety of obstacles in my pursuit of an early night. Sometimes, I am up late studying, or writing, or painting, or reading — either an edifying novel, or thought-provoking, award-winning work of non-fiction.

But mostly it’s this fucking guy.

I am a videogame tragic. I’ve loved games since I was a kid, and adulthood has given me enough disposable income to buy every game console on the market, coupled with enough disposable time to play almost no games at all. These days, if I am playing something, it’s usually Halo.1

Happily, modern games log how long you play spy on you, so I was able to find out exactly how long I’ve spent playing the latest incarnation of the Halo franchise, Halo Infinite.

Since it was released in December 2021, I’ve played for 509 hours and 58 minutes. 21 straight days.2

And that’s not including the time I’ve spent playing the other Halo games, or the time I’ve spent playing videogames in general. A lot of those hours were stolen from what otherwise might be sleepytime, and the more I find out about sleep, the more I realise I might have been doing myself some serious damage.

(Newsletter writing resumes yet more days later)

As you can probably tell, I’ve had a bit of a troubled history with sleep. Before I took up my current hobby, which I believe is known as sleep procrastination, a very small yet very loud baby liked to to keep me awake. Before that, it was maybe a dozen years of garden-variety insomnia. Before that, it was working in bars.

I’m going to try and unpick this history over a few disparate newsletters, otherwise this is going to be ten thousand words long, but for now, just know that I decided to research the topic of sleep in the most ironic way possible: by reading about it late at night. Usually after playing Halo. For reading material, I picked Why We Sleep.

This is not your standard self-help book, or even pop-science book, because it’s one of those rare tomes that’s written by an expert and contains actual actionable advice. Author Matthew Walker is a Professor of Neuroscience and Psychology and Director of the Sleep and Neuroimaging Laboratory at the University of California, Berkeley. So I figure he probably knows what he’s talking about. Let’s see what he has to say about my sleep habits.

Routinely sleeping less than six or seven hours a night demolishes your immune system, more than doubling your risk of cancer. Insufficient sleep is a key lifestyle factor determining whether or not you will develop Alzheimer’s disease. Inadequate sleep—even moderate reductions for just one week—disrupts blood sugar levels so profoundly that you would be classified as pre-diabetic. Short sleeping increases the likelihood of your coronary arteries becoming blocked and brittle, setting you on a path toward cardiovascular disease, stroke, and congestive heart failure. Fitting Charlotte Brontë’s prophetic wisdom that “a ruffled mind makes a restless pillow,” sleep disruption further contributes to all major psychiatric conditions, including depression, anxiety, and suicidality.

Oh hell. This is from the first bloody page. And on top of lack of sleep apparently making me depressed, now I have a new thing I’m not doing properly to feel depressed about. Luckily, my watch spies on me logs how much sleep, so I’ve got a good record of how successfully I’m failing. Let’s just see how I’ve been doing lately.

Well, at least I can get a nice early night tonight oh shit how the fuck is it ten thirty already oh god fucking damn it why does this always happen. I haven’t even been playing Halo. Fuck’s sake.

Right, so that was a bit of a departure from my normal way of doing things, but the only way I’m going to keep up any kind of regular publishing is if I make these newsletters a bit shorter, and actually schedule in time to write them during the week. I am sorry if that’s painfully obvious to everyone, but it wasn’t to me. I’ve never been a good judge of how long something is going to take. I know it’s deathly boring to read about how someone is trying ever so hard to keep to a schedule, but it really is one of the things I’m most challenged by, so… enjoy, hopefully?

On that note, here’s how I’m going to make sure I actually do end up publishing newsletters on a strict weekly cadence: Substack has a scheduling feature. So I’ve done this:

In the reasonably likely event that you get an email that looks like that, you’ll know I forgot about my automated accountability mechanism. This will, hopefully, be embarrassing enough that I don’t do it again. But, all going well,  you’ll get an email from me again a bit sooner than a week from now.

Oh and also that goddamn deer painting is finished. This is what it looked like before I varnished it.

Getting art out of my head and on to a canvas (or paper or whatever) was always one of the biggest goals of this self-improvement project. It’s happening, so something is working.3

So, just before I head off to sleep (hopefully) — how do you sleep? Are you any good at it? Does the Sleep Conspiracy come for you too? Or do you just have kids? Let me know in the comments.

Time to wind it up. Hm. Seeing as it’s too late for an early night maybe I’ll just slip in a quick round of Halo before bed…

Thank you for reading The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement. This post is public so feel free to share it.

Hi,

It’s been a while between posts! The good news is that my tardiness is because I got a new job, and it’s been keeping me really busy. The bad news I’d hinted darkly about in previous newsletters was, of course, that I had lost my old job. I am not alone in this. The tech industry has shed hundreds of thousands of jobs in the last few months. The news just broke that media darling Xero is set to shed 800 jobs, with the promise of more job losses to come.

This, like all layoffs, is horrible. It will devastate lives and cause enormous trauma. Naturally, this has caused Xero’s share price to skyrocket.

On that note, hearing from readers has been a huge help to me while I’ve been going through my own kind of crappy time. One of my favourite stories was from someone who’d found themselves working for a “body influencer” in the long-ago time of 2018. I asked them for permission to print it, and they agreed. Here it is, in all its influencey glory.

“I used to work for an influencer,” the email began.

I was fascinated. The writer had seen the post on Webworm about my Cynic’s Guide to Self-Improvement project, and wanted to dish on what they’d seen behind the scenes. They requested to remain mostly anonymous, which I’m fine with, so we’ll call them Diane. And we’ll name the well-known influencer Sarah Lynn, for not-getting-sued reasons. I’ve lightly edited Diane’s words for brevity and clarity.

”Sarah Lynn has begun a new wellness pivot in the last few years, but she was originally part of the influencer era that came off Kayla Itsines’ Bikini Body Guide (BBG), the trend of getting as slim as possible — sorry, as healthy as possible,” Diane writes.

“Sarah Lynn launched off the exposure she got from this to get into the trend of ‘big butt, tiny everything else’. Side note: writing this down feels like I am speaking another language — but at the time it all felt very normal!”

The Bikini Body Guide! My wife and I had this book, briefly. She’d bought it because it had nice food photos, and she’d hoped for some good smoothie recipes, but when we looked through it in detail the food was expensive and unappealing. I’m pretty sure the book has since made the trip to the op shop. Diane continues:

“Sarah Lynn launched a bunch of workout guides, originally called Dat Bod by Sarah Lynn1, then renamed to Dat Ass with Sarah Lynn2, all focused on building a big butt. It was the ‘in’ thing. Eating disorder heaven if I’m honest, but that’s a topic for another day. Essentially she did this rinse and repeat content like other influencers for a few years and got about a million followers on IG. Not to discredit her work ethic but in her own words ‘my body was my business card’. And a lot of impressionable women with low self esteem wanted to look and live like her.”

While there’s plenty to say about how men are bombarded with unhealthy body aspirations, there’s no doubt in my mind that things are worse for women.  For those that feel their body doesn’t measure up, “body influencers” can have a powerful, well, influence.

“This is pretty much where I come in,” Diane says. “Sarah Lynn had her fitness empire, and was launching a clothing and swimwear brand, and was about to launch an app for her fitness guides. I was a working as a graphic designer, and like a lot of graphic designers nowadays I had social media and marketing experience, I had also been a long long term follower (and, like, mega fan — it was embarrassing.)  Sarah Lynn knew about my work, so she hired me to help with some graphics and managing her socials when it came to moderating comments, checking orders etc.”

Diane says that, in hindsight, the relationship between her and Sarah Lynn was — if not exploitative — certainly a bit one-sided. “Looking back, I was clearly simply the cheap/cost saving option instead of hiring a capable agency to manage all this. I was only 20 and very fresh out of Uni,” she explains.

Once Diane was let behind the scenes, things got wild. It turns out that a sizeable proportion of your favourite fitness influencers are keeping some unsavoury secrets. For starters, because a lot of them weren’t actually trained fitness professionals, they simply hired someone else to make their workouts for them.

“This is when the curtain of the industry was pulled away,” Diane says. “I found out a lot of influencers in the space were surprisingly dishonest when it came to the lifestyle they promoted (and profited from). For one, all the workouts Sarah Lynn was making for her app were actually being made by another personal trainer we’ll call ‘Mr Peanutbutter.’ Sarah Lynn just modified/approved the workouts. There was science and a lot of knowledge behind the workouts but it felt weird knowing that Mr Peanutbutter was writing programs for a lot of influencers who would add their branding and sell as their own knowledge.”

Of course, it gets a bit darker than white-labelling someone else’s fitness program to pretend you have exercise expertise that actually belongs to someone else. It turns out that the fastest way to a BikiniBod™️ might not actually be snacking on salads and doing affirmations. It’s more likely to be starvation and steroids.

“Mr Peanutbutter was the one that accidentally let slip that a few of his clients (aka the influencers) were on steroids, some because they competed in bikini comps and some just because they weren’t getting the results they wanted with their own workout guides!” Diane writes. “The biggest shock for me was finding that one of the users was his own girlfriend, Secretariat, who was and is still THE Aussie fitness influencer next to Kayla Itsines. Mr Peanutbutter let slip — thinking back on it, maybe it was just common knowledge for the meeting attendees — that because she had a brand deal coming up for a skincare company and the steroids were giving her acne, she needed to pause on the ‘roids during that brand deal. Just imagine 20 year old me sitting on this zoom call like .”

This is somehow shocking and yet not surprising at all. Steroids are the dirty open secret of the fitness and wellness influencing world. Take, for example, Liver King, who was a male body influencer who amassed millions of followers across YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok over the last year. I say “was” because he recently self-cancelled with the wildly unsurprising revelation that he used steroids.

Like many influencers who target young men, Liver King (real name Brian Johnson) urged a return to a more “ancestral” lifestyle, suggesting that men had become “lost, weak, and submissive.” He uploaded videos of himself — often accompanied by his two teenage sons Rad and Stryker3 — eating giant slabs of raw liver and other organs, which he credited for his burly physique.

It was a lie. Brian was (of course!) jacked up to the fucking nines on ‘roids. His apology video, a seemingly necessary step in the journey of any modern influencer, is the last thing he uploaded to YouTube, and it’s well worth watching, ideally on 2x speed for maximum comedy value.

“Yes. Yes I’ve done steroids, and yes I am on steroids, monitored and managed by  a trained hormone clinician (sic),” Liver King says, with the only surprise in his statement being that whoever gave him his drugs had any training at all.

Back to Diane, with her story of bikini body influencers who were also, slightly less obviously, on steroids.

“Shortly afterwards, Sarah Lynn and her brand moved to an anti-diet perspective that caused a LOT of drama. I was overwhelmed by it and dipped out — hashtag #selfcare, lol. Sarah Lynn is now semi-retired from the influencer world and is mostly just talking about meditation and reconnecting with her own spirituality. It was a whirlwind year but what I got out of it is that everything about health and wellness is fake, so just take what you enjoy!”

And that’s it. I’m really grateful to Diane for sending her story. I’m not sure that everything about every wellness or fitness influencer is fake — but I’m sure that a hell of a lot of it is, and that the space would benefit from a lot more accreditation, training, and skepticism. And I doubt that any of those things are coming any time soon, so all we can do is exactly what Diane suggests.

If you’ve found some value in this story, please share it. The Cynic’s Guide to Self Improvement is free4, paid subscriptions are entirely optional, and the best way to know that people are finding it useful is to see it getting shared around. Also, if you’ve got a story like this, or there’s anything else you’d like me to write about, feel free to email me: notaguru@cynicsguidetoselfimprovement.com.

Thank you for reading The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement. This post is public so feel free to share it.

So yeah. Back in the moment: if you’re affected by the tech industry’s job-killing spree, I am so sorry. You don’t deserve this. I’m gutted that I don’t have anything more helpful to say, and I hope you find something new soon. If the posts I see on my LinkedIn feed are anything to go by, lot of people caught up in this stuff are finding solace in various forms of self-improvement. All I can say, having gone through this several times now, is don’t risk burning out. You’ve just gone through a shitty experience, so take good care of yourself.

Walking is probably good.

During the thankfully brief downtime I had, I did some painting — as you’ll know if you read my Substack chat or the previous post. Here’s how the thing is looking. Not gonna lie, I’m pretty happy with it. It’s not too far off being done! But looking at it now, I can see a few things that are a bit wonky… hmm. Better nip down to the garage and suss it out.

So, for those of you who are following along with the self-improvement stuff — how are you doing? Let me know in the comments.

I’m up to five consecutive pullups now. I’ll be Liver King-sized in no time, I’m sure.

Look out for upcoming posts, in which we will discuss sleep, and masturbation. (Not at the same time, and probably not in the same post.)

Yours in cynicism,

Josh