I was in a car, travelling to an out of town shopping area, with one of my most treasured friends (a select band of about a hundred or so, if you must know) and I had just admitted to him that I suffered from depression. He'd gone quiet, as many folk do while they are ingesting this news and working out (a) what, if anything, to say and (b) whether, and how far, to run away. It turns out that he was considering (c) 'shall I tell this guy I have practiced Transcendental Meditation?'.
Now, good friends we may have been then (and the bond has only deepened over the years) but he was quite right to wonder whether he should admit that to me. T.M. is usually accompanied by a cloud of eastern mysticism, and jokes about the Beatles and I, as a well-known taker of the piss might have been relied upon to mock. But, fortunately for the pair of us, I held my tongue. Long enough, anyway, to ask how he had found the experience.
He told me that there was a certain amount of mumbo-jumbo associated with it and that the 'Maharishi' foundation, despite its charitable status, was quite interested in parting folk from their money. BUT, and it was a big but, he had found it useful and it had helped him through turbulent times in his youth. I made polite interested noises, thought I might try it sometime, and filed it away in my mind for future reference, where it may well have stayed.
While I was, to all intents and purposes over the bout of depression I'd suffered, I was tired, and sleeping very poorly. Another very good friend suggested that my diet might be at fault and recommended a naturopath. Well, I was getting desperate, and desperate folk to unexpected things, so I found one in yellow pages (where he'd been moonlighting as a bookmark), and went to see him. He put me on a detox-diet, loaded me with a collection of bottled supplements and tonics, relieved me of a wad of cash and commanded me to cease smoking, and desist from taking alcohol and caffeine, and to come back and see him in a week.
For three days I experienced the kind of hell that I steadfastly believed could not possibly get any worse. Everything that went into me and most things that came out were a virulent shade of green and, as each day proved, I was wrong about the not getting any worse. On the fourth day, though, I woke up full of energy and raring to go so, as one does, I went straight back to beer and burgers.
A few days later I arrived for my follow-up appointment, which went something like this:
Him: So the detox went well, and you're sleeping better?
Me: Yep.
Him: But not as well as you think you should be sleeping?
Me: Yep.
Him: That's because you're actually quite an angry man.
Me: No I'm not!
Him: Yes you are. (repeat twice, with additional exclamation marks)
Me: I'M NOT FUCKING WELL ANGRY!
Him: Ahah! (triumphantly)
Me: (simmering down a little) OK, ok, so maybe I am. what should I do about it?
Him: I don't know, I'm a naturopath, not a counsellor.
And so it was that I remembered the conversation I'd had a few weeks ago, looked up T.M. in the yellow pages, and found myself handing over a grand to a frenchman called Gerald who proceeded to earn this enormous sum by teaching me to shut my eyes for twenty minutes a day while repeating a nonsense-word. Bizarrely, it worked. My sleep improved, and my concentration at work was laser sharp. On the down side, Gerald continued to try to sell me Vedic 'cures', make me go vegetarian, and suggest that one day I would achieve 'yogic flying'. After a while, the mysticism annoyed me, the whole meditation thing just petered out and. slowly, imperceptibly, I settled back into the ruts I'd worn over the years.
Until Mindfulness, but that's a different story.
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