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#in november i will strive for better than average once every two days
tchintchun · 11 months
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October Reading
Adams, William Y., Dennis P. Van Gerven, and Richard S. Levy. "The retreat from migrationism." Annual Review of Anthropology 7, no. 1 (1978): 483-532.
Bender, Barbara. "Landscapes on-the-move." Journal of Social Archaeology 1, no. 1 (2001): 75-89.
Denevan, William M. "The pristine myth: the landscape of the Americas in 1492." Annals of the Association of American Geographers 82, no. 3 (1992): 369-385.
Harris, Cheryl I. "Whiteness as property." Harvard law review (1993): 1707-1791.
Kamp, Marianne. "Debating Sharia: The 1917 Muslim Women's Congress in Russia." Journal of Women's History 27, no. 4 (2015): 13-37.
Krahl, Regina. "Tang Blue-and-white." Shipwrecked. Tang treasures and monsoon winds (2010): 209-211.
Myers, Fred R. "Ways of place-making." La ricerca folklorica (2002): 101-119.
Phillips, E. D. “The Legend of Aristeas: Fact and Fancy in Early Greek Notions of East Russia, Siberia, and Inner Asia.” Artibus Asiae 18, no. 2 (1955): 161–77. https://doi.org/10.2307/3248792.
Ridley, Ronald T. "To be taken with a pinch of salt: the destruction of Carthage." Classical Philology 81, no. 2 (1986): 140-146.
Sanborn, Geoffrey. "Whence come you, Queequeg?." American Literature 77, no. 2 (2005): 227.
Shearmire, Brantlee. "The Home Away From Home: El Quartelejo Pueblo Ruins, Scott County, Kansas." (2010).
Snead, James E., and Robert w Preucel. "The Ideology of Settlement: Ancestral Keres." Allpanchis 18, no. 27: 39-74.
Staski, Edward. "Change and inertia on the frontier: Archaeology at the Paraje de San Diego, Camino Real, in southern New Mexico." International Journal of Historical Archaeology 2 (1998): 21-44.
Van Gijseghem, Hendrik. "A frontier perspective on Paracas society and Nasca ethnogenesis." Latin American Antiquity 17, no. 4 (2006): 419-444.
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debtfreeinthree · 7 years
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How to Get Fabulous Makeup Without Spending a Fortune
When I first decided that I wanted to pay off my loans early, I realized I needed to cut costs. Everywhere. That included my makeup and skincare products. Gone were the days of going to Sephora every time I wanted a new lip color, in came drugstore makeup.
Growing up I was always envious of girls with designer lip glosses and eyeshadows, so it felt amazing once I started buying the brands I once coveted.
But spending so much money on makeup seemed frivolous once I realized how much I owed on my student loans, and many people claimed that you could find the same quality for cheap. If that was true, then why was I spending so much money?
Unfortunately, I haven’t entirely converted to drugstore makeup, but that doesn’t mean I’m OK with buying full-price products. There are ways to save when you’re shopping at Sephora or Ulta.
Do Tons of Research
Anytime I’m in the market for a new eyeliner or lipstick, I go to the number one place to read reviews: MakeUpAlley.com. You have to register there to see the reviews, but it’s so worth it.
For example, if I want to get a new tinted moisturizer, I’ll go there, click on Product Reviews, Tinted Moisturizer and search. I can instantly sort the options based on price, number of reviews and average rating. Usually, I do it by the number of reviews because if someone’s rated an item five starts once, it’ll be the highest rated.
Once I’ve found a few I want to learn more about, I click on the links and read the individual reviews. I like knowing if a foundation made someone with oily skin break out more or if the facial sunscreen left a white cast. Reading lots of reviews makes me prepared to actually go to the store and start shopping.
MakeUpAlley includes both drugstore and high-end brands in their reviews, so you can easily see if there’s a CoverGirl tinted moisturizer that works as well as the Nars or Laura Mercier. I love that! Who wants to spend more money for the same product?
Find Duplicates
Sometimes when I find a high-end product I really like, I still don’t want to splurge on it, especially if it’s something non-essential like setting powder or eyeshadow. I’d rather save my coins for foundation or eyeliner, something I use every time I put on makeup.
So if I have a product in mind, I’ll go to Temptalia, a blog that does makeup reviews and finds duplicates (or dupes). Most of the time, the dupes are cheaper versions of the same product. Temptalia writes about how the two are different, and she’ll rate how close the drugstore version is to its high-end twin.
Here’s an example. I looked up MAC Ruby Woo and found a bunch of dupes. Temptalia recommends the Maybelline Very Cherry – and even shows how it’s $9.51 cheaper than MAC and matches Ruby Woo 94% – what a win!
Seriously, if you’re not looking at drugstore duplicates, you’re really missing out.
Try Before You Buy
If you haven’t found a drugstore version of the makeup you like, it’s ok to get it from Sephora or Ulta. Sometimes, quality is more expensive. But before you splurge on $50 foundation, try a sample of it. Nowadays, I always get samples before I buy makeup because I want to see how it works on my skin away from the bright lights of Sephora. I also like samples because you can make sure your skin doesn’t have a bad reaction to it.
Sephora’s employees are super nice about letting people take samples, but the people at Ulta can be a little hesitant about it. Still, it’s better to get a sample before you buy something you don’t like. Too many people end up not returning something, so that’s why I recommend getting a sample first.
Wait for Sales
Ulta and Sephora rarely have sales or coupons, so definitely stock up when they do. Sometimes I’ll even buy my favorite NARS foundation when it hasn’t yet run out because I don’t want to wait and miss the sale. Sephora’s sales are in April and November, while Ulta always has some around the holidays.
Join the email list so you’ll be notified when it happens. Ulta also has weekly coupons you can use on their cheaper products, which is also a great deal.
Join the Rewards Program
Both Ulta and Sephora have a rewards program that is free to join, so definitely sign up for that if you haven’t already. You can get free gifts on your birthday – I’ve gotten a mini free NARS lipstick from Sephora that was perfect for my skin tone and a travel-size Fresh cleanser. Plus, it makes it easier to return items if they’re linked to your card.
Sometimes Sephora has special deals where they’ll double how many points you earn with each purchase. Since Sephora’s rewards are actually super valuable, this is also a good time to buy anything you need.
I always wait to use my Sephora rewards until I’m 100% sure I want the product. Sometimes I’ll have enough to redeem for a special gift, but there’s nothing I actually like. But if I’m patient, eventually I’ll find something I like.
Also, if you shop online at Sephora.com, you can usually get extra samples and offers if you spend more than a certain amount. You can find this in the Beauty Offers section.
Check the Sale Section
Both stores have an in-store and online sale section that can have great stuff if you poke around. I’ve gotten good deals from their clearance area before too. Plus, you can usually sample the goods at Sephora so you’ll know if you’re getting a good deal or a crappy product.
My Favorite Budget Beauty Buys
Nowadays, about half of my makeup comes from Sephora and half comes from Target or Amazon. I research carefully before deciding if I want to splurge or if I can save a few bucks. I rarely buy new makeup, so it’s always a big deal when I need to replace something. I’m really confident in my recommendation, so here’s a list of my favorite budget beauty items:
Real Techniques Brushes
A good makeup brush is almost more important than the makeup itself, so I’ve always strived for quality when it comes to my brushes. The great news about Real Techniques is that their brushes are affordable AND highly rated.
I’ve slowly replaced most of my brushes with Real Techniques. If you wash them regularly with gentle soap and cold water, they’ll last forever.
I also save money because as you can see, I don’t own a ton of their brushes – just the blush and foundation brush. I still have an eyeshadow brush from EcoTools that I use, but when it starts to fade, I’ll replace it with a Real Techniques.
They work well, distribute color evenly and last forever. Just make sure to keep them away from your dogs, who might think your eyeshadow brush is a small chew stick.
Cost: Ranges from $3-$8 per brush on Amazon
Wet n Wild Color Icon Collection Eye Shadow Trio in Silent Treatment
This is my favorite eyeshadow palette. I can layer the colors to create a sophisticated look, and they hold up throughout the day.
I would recommend this to anyone who doesn’t want to splurge on the Naked palette but still wants a few good neutrals to wear. Did I mention it was less than $3?
Plus, since I travel a lot, I can fit this easily in my makeup bag. It holds up throughout the day (even better when I layer eyeshadow primer underneath it). Even though I have a bigger palette now, I still reach for this one when I’m in a hurry.
Cost: $2.99 at Walgreens
L’Oreal Voluminous Original Mascara (Waterproof)
For a while, I was buying my mascara at Sephora, but I went on MakeUpAlley (duh) and this mascara had great reviews. It’s held up really well and doesn’t run like other drugstore mascaras I’ve tried. I get the waterproof since my eyes get teary, but I think the regular version also does well.
Cost: $7.99 at Ulta
What are your best tips for saving on makeup and skincare? Share your favorite tips below!
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How to Get Fabulous Makeup Without Spending a Fortune was originally published on Debt Free After Three
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senelkins-blog · 7 years
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NEW YORK TIMES. FEBRUARY 2017. 
SENATOR ELKINS DID NOT ASK TO BE A BELLWETHER. At no point in his prodigious career did he ever ask for the mantle of prophet or did he demand the cardboard sign of an apocalyptic herald. Instead, his thirty-plus years of dedication to the conservative cause gradually transformed him into a tough love advocate for its transformation. His devotion to the right-wing has pushed him into battles with everyone from his own party to each branch of the government —— federal, state, and local levels, too. His image is one of a protector, if not necessarily a cage-fighter. He hearkens back to a different age of politics (one that he suspects never truly existed) when good men got their hands dirty behind close doors and while wearing gloves. The word integrity comes to mind, though it may perhaps be a partisan twist of the term. He does the right thing, even if that thing is announcing —— unflinchingly —— the impending demise of his own movement.
November 9th, 2016. The senator gives his final public speech of the year. At the time, no one suspected that he would disappear behind the scenes well into the new year. His ghost-like presence on the campaign grew gradually more public until the very last minute; his final speech was every bit what would have been expected. However, no one —— not even members of the Solis campaign itself  —— could have predicted that the godfather of the party would seemingly turn his back in their darkest hour. In that speech, which some of his long-time enemies regard as infamous, he concluded by paying homage to Barry Goldwater.
“Offer a choice, not an echo,” the senator repeats to me. His home in Raleigh is every bit what one would expect: we sit on a massive wraparound porch; his wife handed me a cold glass of sweet tea with a wedge of lemon before disappearing in her scarf to the garden; there are a couple of grandchildren chasing each other along the edge of a cornfield in the front yard; the sounds of the city are just far enough away to emphasis that of a tractor somewhere in the distance; the senator’s mint-condition 1953 F-100 sits in the driveway. I sit in awe of my surroundings, aware of the depth to which the senator’s carefully crafted image goes.
“Voters want change, and that’s a fact. Even when things are good, they ain’t satisfied. They want better. They deserve better, and they know it. A lot of politicians would tell you off the record that the people are dumb, and their attention just ain’t long enough to keep track of four years of work. But, that’s plainly wrong. They know —— they sense it in their guts without having to pick up a copy of the Post. America is more than a place, you know. It’s a state of mind, it’s a place in the heart. It’s an ideal that voters expect us to strive toward. Do we?”
He lets the question hang in the air and, at the time, I wonder if he recalls my original question. A few minutes earlier, I brought up a recent topic from an interview he allowed in his Hill office. Deterioration of the Republican party, he had said. Everyone from the RNC chair to the House Minority Leader have been forced to comment, and they all say the same thing: he’s working on it. The phrase has become synonymous with Senator Elkins over the years; when he gets to work on something, be it a vintage car or an improbable slog uphill and back into power, the work tends to be fruitful. But, rather than hashing through the how, I want to know the why.
“Right after we lose our way, we do.” He continues abruptly. The illusion of distraction comes across as he leans forward in his rocking chair to wave at a grandchild who has ducked toward the porch —— presumably for a glass of the tea, though I later see her rush outside with a model dump truck with working wheels which the senator says he hand-painted last Christmas. We take a break from the interview to go help the little girl load the back of the toy with dirt from Mrs. Elkin’s garden.
It is here that he really elaborates on his thoughts. I realize that I get real answers on his terms, usually as a product of a roundabout discussion that leaves the questions I fed him untouched to the point of frustration. Still, the senator’s home life is a fascinating look into who he is as a person. For a politician so paradoxically impersonal, even the way he helps his wife pull weeds tells a small story about who he is in Washington.
“The Republican party ain’t smart anymore. Emotions are a powerful political tool, be we’ve been using them right poorly as of late. Good ole McCain was destined to lose, going up against all the hopey-changey stuff.” He pauses to wink at me. “But, it’s been bad ever since then. Romney was out of touch. Solis was … a miscalculation.”
The Carolina soil under my nails is dark and wet; Mrs. Elkin’s tomatoes are beautiful.
“We went back to the Fifties, I think. We offered voters two shades of the same color, and they went with the one that did it best. Frankly, the conservative vision has become watered-down, weak, too indecisive to appeal to the average voter. They see a bunch of rich [jerks] in suits vying for a spot on some wealthy donor’s lap. It’s sickening, and people from Coal Country and the Delta and even the suburban Triangle can see that. Theresa Wright should not have won. She’s not as charismatic as Barack Obama, she offered herself as a lite version of him, and everything about her screamed centrism.” He clears his throat, and the sound is intentionally ugly. “We’re picking up the piece right now. I can’t figure out for the life of me how we were so off.”
This sounds like an aside. Can’t sounds more like paint when he says it.
“Conservatism looks like elitism these days. I want to take it back to the little people, and do it quick. The Dems have abandoned mom and pop and Joe and Suzy with even more zeal than we have, and it’s gonna become a race back to the trailer park once the midterms wipe them out.”
I ask over barbecue sandwiches if he truly believes that there will be Republican majorities in 2018.
“Absolutely. I like the word deterioration. I also like the word regeneration. I got things in the works, you know. Ever since Obama, we’ve been trying to make ourselves palatable. We like to play to the center as much as our base, and we went a little too far during the campaign. Not enough red meat. Not enough contrast. Wright is leading everyone into the wrong, and I can feel it like an ulcer. The people know when they’re being duped, and they know when Washington don’t care about them. Am I waiting for her to make a wrong move? Yes, I sure as hell am. When she does, we’ll show the nation that we ain’t an echo —— of anything, of anyone. People want something to believe in, and they want to believe in change. More than anything else, they want solid and real choices.”
                                                                                  by Gia Saab.
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perfectzablog · 5 years
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How Selective Empathy Can Chip Away At Civil Society
Militia leader Ammon Bundy, famous for leading an armed standoff in Oregon, had a tender moment in November of last year. He recorded a Facebook post saying that perhaps President Trump’s characterization of the migrant caravan on the U.S.-Mexico border was somewhat broad. Maybe they weren’t all criminals, he said. “What about those who have come here for reasons of need?”
Bundy did not say he was breaking with Trump. He just asked his followers to put themselves in the shoes of “the fathers, the mothers, the children” who came to escape violence. It was a call for a truce grounded in empathy, the kind you might hear in a war zone, say, or an Easter Sunday sermon. Still, it was met with a swift and rageful response from his followers, so overwhelming that within days, Bundy decided to quit Facebook.
In an earlier era, Bundy’s appeal might have resonated. But he failed to tune in to a critical shift in American culture — one that a handful of researchers have been tracking, with some alarm, for the past decade or so. Americans these days seem to be losing their appetite for empathy, especially the walk-a-mile-in-someone’s-shoes Easter Sunday morning kind.
When I was growing up in the ’70s, empathy was all the rage. The term was coined in 1908; then, social scientists and psychologists started more aggressively pushing the concept into the culture after World War II, basically out of fear. The idea was that we were all going to kill each other with nuclear weapons — or learn to see the world through each other’s eyes. In my elementary school in the 1970s, which was not progressive or mushy in any way, we wrote letters to pretend Russian pen pals to teach us to open our hearts to our enemies.
And not just enemies. Civil rights activists had also picked up on the idea. Kenneth Clark, a social scientist and civil rights activist, half-jokingly proposed that people in power all be required to take an “empathy pill” so they could make better decisions. His hope was that people with power and privilege would one day inhabit the realities of people without power, not from the safe, noblesse oblige distance of pity, but from the inside. An evolved person was an empathetic person, choosing understanding over fear.
Then, more than a decade ago, a certain suspicion of empathy started to creep in, particularly among young people. One of the first people to notice was Sara Konrath, an associate professor and researcher at Indiana University. Since the late 1960s, researchers have surveyed young people on their levels of empathy, testing their agreement with statements such as: “It’s not really my problem if others are in trouble and need help” or “Before criticizing somebody I try to imagine how I would feel if I were in their place.”
Konrath collected decades of studies and noticed a very obvious pattern. Starting around 2000, the line starts to slide. More students say it’s not their problem to help people in trouble, not their job to see the world from someone else’s perspective. By 2009, on all the standard measures, Konrath found, young people on average measure 40 percent less empathetic than my own generation — 40 percent!
It’s strange to think of empathy – a natural human impulse — as fluctuating in this way, moving up and down like consumer confidence. But that’s what happened. Young people just started questioning what my elementary school teachers had taught me.
Their feeling was: Why should they put themselves in the shoes of someone who was not them, much less someone they thought was harmful? In fact, cutting someone off from empathy was the positive value, a way to make a stand.
So, for example, when the wife of white nationalist Richard Spencer recently told BuzzFeed he had abused her, the question debated on the lefty Internet was: Why should we care that some woman who chose to ally herself with a nasty racist got herself hurt? Why waste empathy on that? (Spencer, in a court filing, denies all her allegations.)
The new rule for empathy seems to be: reserve it, not for your “enemies,” but for the people you believe are hurt, or you have decided need it the most. Empathy, but just for your own team. And empathizing with the other team? That’s practically a taboo.
And it turns out that this brand of selective empathy is a powerful force.
In the past 20 years, psychologists and neurologists have started to look at how empathy actually works, in our brains and our hearts, when we’re not thinking about it. And one thing they’ve found is that “one of the strongest triggers for human empathy is observing some kind of conflict between two other parties,” says Fritz Breithaupt, a professor at Indiana University who studies empathy. “Once they take the side, they’re drawn into that perspective. And that can lead to very strong empathy and too strong polarization with something you only see this one side and not the other side any longer.”
A classic example is the Super Bowl, or any Auburn, Alabama game.
But these days in the news, examples come up every day: the Kavanaugh hearings, emergency funding for a wall, Spike Lee walking out of the Oscars, the Barr report, Kirstjen Nielsen, every third thing on Twitter.
Researchers who study empathy have noticed that it’s actually really hard to do what we were striving for in my generation: empathize with people who are different than you are, much less people you don’t like. But if researchers set up a conflict, people get into automatic empathy overdrive, with their own team. This new research has scrambled notions of how empathy works as a force in the world. For example, we often think of terrorists as shockingly blind to the suffering of innocents. But Breithaupt and other researchers think of them as classic examples of people afflicted with an “excess of empathy. They feel the suffering of their people.”
Breithaupt called his new book The Dark Sides of Empathy, because there’s a point at which empathy doesn’t even look like the kind of universal empathy I was taught in school. There is a natural way that empathy gets triggered in the brain — your pain centers light up when you see another person suffering. But out in the world it starts to look more like tribalism, a way to keep reinforcing your own point of view and blocking out any others.
Breithaupt is alarmed at the apparent new virus of selective empathy and how it’s deepening divisions. If we embrace it, he says, then “basically you give up on civil society at that point. You give up on democracy. Because if you feed into this division more and you let it happen, it will become so strong that it becomes dangerous.”
We can’t return to my generation’s era of empathy innocence, because we now know too much about how the force actually works. But we can’t give up on empathy either, because empathy is “90 percent what our life is all about,” Breithaupt says. “Without it, we would be just alone.”
In his book Breithaupt proposes an ingenious solution: give up on the idea that when we are “empathizing” we are being altruistic, or helping the less fortunate, or in any way doing good. What we can do when we do empathy, proposes Fritz, is help ourselves. We can learn to see the world through the eyes of a migrant child and a militia leader and a Russian pen pal purely so we can expand our own imaginations, and make our own minds richer. It’s selfish empathy. Not saintly, but better than being alone.
Copyright 2019 NPR. To see more, visit https://www.npr.org.
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bisoroblog · 5 years
Text
How Selective Empathy Can Chip Away At Civil Society
Militia leader Ammon Bundy, famous for leading an armed standoff in Oregon, had a tender moment in November of last year. He recorded a Facebook post saying that perhaps President Trump’s characterization of the migrant caravan on the U.S.-Mexico border was somewhat broad. Maybe they weren’t all criminals, he said. “What about those who have come here for reasons of need?”
Bundy did not say he was breaking with Trump. He just asked his followers to put themselves in the shoes of “the fathers, the mothers, the children” who came to escape violence. It was a call for a truce grounded in empathy, the kind you might hear in a war zone, say, or an Easter Sunday sermon. Still, it was met with a swift and rageful response from his followers, so overwhelming that within days, Bundy decided to quit Facebook.
In an earlier era, Bundy’s appeal might have resonated. But he failed to tune in to a critical shift in American culture — one that a handful of researchers have been tracking, with some alarm, for the past decade or so. Americans these days seem to be losing their appetite for empathy, especially the walk-a-mile-in-someone’s-shoes Easter Sunday morning kind.
When I was growing up in the ’70s, empathy was all the rage. The term was coined in 1908; then, social scientists and psychologists started more aggressively pushing the concept into the culture after World War II, basically out of fear. The idea was that we were all going to kill each other with nuclear weapons — or learn to see the world through each other’s eyes. In my elementary school in the 1970s, which was not progressive or mushy in any way, we wrote letters to pretend Russian pen pals to teach us to open our hearts to our enemies.
And not just enemies. Civil rights activists had also picked up on the idea. Kenneth Clark, a social scientist and civil rights activist, half-jokingly proposed that people in power all be required to take an “empathy pill” so they could make better decisions. His hope was that people with power and privilege would one day inhabit the realities of people without power, not from the safe, noblesse oblige distance of pity, but from the inside. An evolved person was an empathetic person, choosing understanding over fear.
Then, more than a decade ago, a certain suspicion of empathy started to creep in, particularly among young people. One of the first people to notice was Sara Konrath, an associate professor and researcher at Indiana University. Since the late 1960s, researchers have surveyed young people on their levels of empathy, testing their agreement with statements such as: “It’s not really my problem if others are in trouble and need help” or “Before criticizing somebody I try to imagine how I would feel if I were in their place.”
Konrath collected decades of studies and noticed a very obvious pattern. Starting around 2000, the line starts to slide. More students say it’s not their problem to help people in trouble, not their job to see the world from someone else’s perspective. By 2009, on all the standard measures, Konrath found, young people on average measure 40 percent less empathetic than my own generation — 40 percent!
It’s strange to think of empathy – a natural human impulse — as fluctuating in this way, moving up and down like consumer confidence. But that’s what happened. Young people just started questioning what my elementary school teachers had taught me.
Their feeling was: Why should they put themselves in the shoes of someone who was not them, much less someone they thought was harmful? In fact, cutting someone off from empathy was the positive value, a way to make a stand.
So, for example, when the wife of white nationalist Richard Spencer recently told BuzzFeed he had abused her, the question debated on the lefty Internet was: Why should we care that some woman who chose to ally herself with a nasty racist got herself hurt? Why waste empathy on that? (Spencer, in a court filing, denies all her allegations.)
The new rule for empathy seems to be: reserve it, not for your “enemies,” but for the people you believe are hurt, or you have decided need it the most. Empathy, but just for your own team. And empathizing with the other team? That’s practically a taboo.
And it turns out that this brand of selective empathy is a powerful force.
In the past 20 years, psychologists and neurologists have started to look at how empathy actually works, in our brains and our hearts, when we’re not thinking about it. And one thing they’ve found is that “one of the strongest triggers for human empathy is observing some kind of conflict between two other parties,” says Fritz Breithaupt, a professor at Indiana University who studies empathy. “Once they take the side, they’re drawn into that perspective. And that can lead to very strong empathy and too strong polarization with something you only see this one side and not the other side any longer.”
A classic example is the Super Bowl, or any Auburn, Alabama game.
But these days in the news, examples come up every day: the Kavanaugh hearings, emergency funding for a wall, Spike Lee walking out of the Oscars, the Barr report, Kirstjen Nielsen, every third thing on Twitter.
Researchers who study empathy have noticed that it’s actually really hard to do what we were striving for in my generation: empathize with people who are different than you are, much less people you don’t like. But if researchers set up a conflict, people get into automatic empathy overdrive, with their own team. This new research has scrambled notions of how empathy works as a force in the world. For example, we often think of terrorists as shockingly blind to the suffering of innocents. But Breithaupt and other researchers think of them as classic examples of people afflicted with an “excess of empathy. They feel the suffering of their people.”
Breithaupt called his new book The Dark Sides of Empathy, because there’s a point at which empathy doesn’t even look like the kind of universal empathy I was taught in school. There is a natural way that empathy gets triggered in the brain — your pain centers light up when you see another person suffering. But out in the world it starts to look more like tribalism, a way to keep reinforcing your own point of view and blocking out any others.
Breithaupt is alarmed at the apparent new virus of selective empathy and how it’s deepening divisions. If we embrace it, he says, then “basically you give up on civil society at that point. You give up on democracy. Because if you feed into this division more and you let it happen, it will become so strong that it becomes dangerous.”
We can’t return to my generation’s era of empathy innocence, because we now know too much about how the force actually works. But we can’t give up on empathy either, because empathy is “90 percent what our life is all about,” Breithaupt says. “Without it, we would be just alone.”
In his book Breithaupt proposes an ingenious solution: give up on the idea that when we are “empathizing” we are being altruistic, or helping the less fortunate, or in any way doing good. What we can do when we do empathy, proposes Fritz, is help ourselves. We can learn to see the world through the eyes of a migrant child and a militia leader and a Russian pen pal purely so we can expand our own imaginations, and make our own minds richer. It’s selfish empathy. Not saintly, but better than being alone.
Copyright 2019 NPR. To see more, visit https://www.npr.org.
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thisislizheather · 6 years
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2018 Resolutions Revisited
This is one of my favourite posts to write, but I feel like you know that already. Most people throw away their resolutions after a few months, but I love to keep very specific track of everything I try to do throughout the year, so here we go. Here’s how 2018 went for me.
Read at least one book per season.
For winter, I read Jen Kirkman’s I Can Barely Take Care of Myself and Lindy West’s Shrill. For spring, I read Rachel Dratch’s Girl Walks Into A Bar…, David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day and Jim Gaffigan’s Food: A Love Story. For summer, I read The Duplass Brothers’ Like Brothers, Mike Reiss’ Springfield Confidential, Ijeoma Oluo’s So You Want To Talk About Race and Penny Marshall’s My Mother Was Nuts. For autumn, I read Bill Cunningham’s Fashion Climbing. So I guess you can say YEAH, I crushed this resolution.
Go to the gym or do some kind of physically strenuous activity at least ten times a month.
January - 8 times
February - 2 times
March - 3 times
April - 9 times
May - 13 times
June - 4 times
July - 0 times
August - 9 times
September - 5 times
October - 3 times
November - 5 times
December - 23 times (hahah, can you tell I was trying to be extra impressive this month?)
So that means that I worked out for 23% of the days of the year, which is better than 2017 (which was 17%) so that makes me feel great. I know it’s just a number and I shouldn’t care about things like that, but I do so what can you do. Going to strive for an even better number next year.
Juice at least five times a month.
January - 24 times
February - 6 times
March - 6 times
April - 1 time
May - 15 times
June - 8 times
July - 3 times
August - 5 times
September - 1 time
October - 1 time
November - 0 times
December - 25 times
Okay so there were five months when this didn’t happen. But I mean… look at January and May and December. I feel like I go nuts with the juices every five months or so. Weird. Still love this resolution.
At least once a month, go to a nice restaurant that you've never been to before.
January - Fuck! Nowhere!
February - The Wilcox (the lobster poutine was nuts) & BlueBlood Steakhouse (good, but definitely overrated)
March - Martina (killer pizza), The Spotted Pig (the gnudi is obviously a dream but with all the terrible things that went on here, it just felt wrong to be any kind of a fan of this place), Butcher Bar (definitely not as great as Astoria blogs tell you it is)
April - Prime by Jean Georges (crazy overrated/overpriced), Emeril’s Delmonico Steakhouse (so, so great - this man can do no wrong)
May - Javelina (so good!), L’Artusi (literally the best pasta I’ve ever had in NYC)
June - Bocca (only okay)
July - Astor Court (lovely as hell)
August - The Russian Tea Room (overrated, average food)
September - Cherry Point (so, so good)
October - Nowhere!
November - Dante (quite good), Del Frisco’s (really good meat), Rainbow Room Pop Up Bar (incredible), Ofrenda (best quesadillas), Pil Pil (really good tapas)
December - The Spaniard (crazy good burger), Le Rivage (average, though the snails were good)
There were only two months when this didn’t happen! That’s pretty sweet.
Take Baby Dog on at least two dog adventures per month (this could include going to Central Park, Astoria Park, dog dates, etc.)
Oh boy, was this an eager resolution. I did take her to Central Park as much as I could when the weather was warm, but of course I could’ve taken her more. She also went to some dog friendly cafes, so that was good too. If I keep this resolution for 2019, I’ll definitely revise it to be a seasonal aspiration instead of a twice-monthly one.
Properly go on a date with Nathan at least once a month.
I kind of can’t even believe we did this every single month except September (which he travelled for most of), sometimes even a few times a month! It was great! I could list everything we did here but that seems… like something a crazy person would do (said the person who counts her juices & workouts on a daily basis).
Learn how to meditate.
I think I did? For a few months I tried to do it and it seems like something I need a lot more practice with. Also, maybe I was doing it wrong, but I didn’t really understand what I was supposed to get out of it. Obviously it’s great for a lot of people, I’m not trying to be a dick, but I think I was just missing something about it in general.
Once a month, write a letter to someone that I haven’t seen for awhile.
Hahahah, awww. Not a chance in hell. I did this once and I’m pretty sure I mailed it to the wrong address.
Once a season, do a week-long juice cleanse or follow a completely raw food diet.
Again, NOPE! Too hard.
By the end of the year, stop waitressing and start editing full time again.
I was reeeeally close to having this done in June, but then backed out of it. Lots of reasons. Some personal ones just for me to know. But I’ll keep working towards this goal. I happen to not completely hate waitressing, so until I do, I think I’ll keep doing it.
Some other notable things that happened: I was on Nathan’s podcast Positive Anger twice, which was really, really fun. I started doing my monthly roundup posts (May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December) that I think I’ll continue to do. So many great photos were taken (which reminds me that I need to make the 2018 photo book sometime soon). My attempt at Halloween domination continued. Went on some memorable vacations to Las Vegas and Vermont. We celebrated my dad’s 95th birthday. My grandmother turned 100.
2018 was kind of a good year, I think. It’s so hard to tell when you’re looking back at it. It wasn’t the best or worst, but it’s over now so we can only look forward. Definitely going to try and make this one a wicked one. Thank you so much for continuing to read and encourage all of the nonsense that I post on here, it means more to me than anyone will ever know.
0 notes
stoneybrookgolf · 6 years
Text
Remember this young man – 17 years old and making his Tour Debut this week
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post Remember this young man – 17 years old and making his Tour Debut this week appeared first on Stoneybrook Golf Course.
0 notes
nationalgolfclub · 6 years
Text
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs.
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. appeared first on The National Golf Club of Louisiana.
0 notes
shakerrungc · 6 years
Text
17 year old golfer making his Tour debut this week
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post 17 year old golfer making his Tour debut this week appeared first on Shaker Run Golf Club.
0 notes
downrivergolf · 6 years
Text
A 17 year old making is PGA Tour debut at Valspar
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post A 17 year old making is PGA Tour debut at Valspar appeared first on Down River Golf Course.
0 notes
kingswaycountryclub · 6 years
Text
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs.
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. appeared first on Kingsway Country Club.
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Text
Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and ready for his tour debut this week
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and ready for his tour debut this week appeared first on Makefield Highlands.
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“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school.”
Akshay Bhatia, 17, full of swagger and set for PGA Tour debut at Valspar
At the Walker Cup practice session in December, U.S. captain Nathaniel Crosby left junior golfer Akshay Bhatia with one final piece of advice ahead of the Jones Cup Invitational in late January.
“He said, ‘You better be in the final group on Sunday so I don’t have to chase you around,’ ” Bhatia recalled.
Bhatia, 17, did better than that. He defeated Georgia sophomore Davis Thompson on the first hole of a sudden-death playoff at Ocean Forest Golf Club on St. Simons Island, Ga., after the final round was canceled due to rain.
“I’m just sorry he ended up driving five hours to watch me play one hole,” Bhatia said of Crosby’s trip.
The victory at one of amateur golf’s most prestigious invitationals should shoot Bhatia, Golfweek’s No. 1-ranked junior and the reigning AJGA player of the year, even higher on Crosby’s “watch list” for the Walker Cup, which will be played Sept. 7-8 at Royal Liverpool Golf Club in Hoylake, England.
“Oh my gosh, it would be a dream come true,” Bhatia of Wake Forest, N.C., said of a chance to represent the 10-man U.S. side. “You just don’t get that opportunity too many times. Just to be part of the practice session was unreal.”
But Bhatia was even more overcome by the fact that joining a prestigious list of Jones Cup champions – including Patrick Reed, Justin Thomas and Beau Hossler – also earned him a berth in the PGA Tour’s RSM Classic this fall.
“I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school,” Bhatia said.
Bhatia won’t have to wait much longer to fulfill his dream of playing in a PGA Tour event. Bhatia tells Golfweek he has accepted a sponsorship exemption into the Valspar Championship on March 21-24 at Innisbrook Resort’s Copperhead Course in Palm Harbor, Fla.
Bhatia has played in Thursday and Monday PGA Tour Qualifiers, further confirmation that he intends to skip college and turn professional in January when he turns 18.
“It’s made me stronger mentally,” Bhatia said of trying to earn one of four available spots at qualifying. “Once I get through one, I think I’ll make a bunch more. I’m just lacking experience.”
He showed he’s more than capable of holding his own against the game’s top amateurs. Beating a field consisting of top collegians at the Jones Cup in his first start back after nursing a back injury suffered in late November during the AJGA Rolex Tournament of Champions helps validate Bhatia’s decision to forgo college.
As much as Bhatia would like to make the Walker Cup team – and he plans to play the European and British Amateurs this summer in preparation for links golf – he sees it merely as a stop along his journey to making the PGA Tour. He has tunnel vision, his eyes locked in on a pro golf career.
George Gankas, one of his team of instructors, described Bhatia as mature beyond his years and noted a surge in his confidence and self-belief. Gankas recounted a telling conversation he had with Bhatia at the U.S. Amateur in August.
“He said, ‘I guess I have to start acting like ‘The Man’ because I’m pretty much ‘The Man’ among the juniors,’ ” Gankas said. “Since that point, his walk is different, the way he talks is different and the way he carries himself is different. It’s not in a cocky way; he’s just a more confident player.
“He’ll win a tournament and ask, ‘What needs to be better?’ How many kids his age do that? He’s trying to figure a way to get better to win by more.”
Bhatia, who crushed the field at the AJGA’s Polo Golf Junior Classic by 10 strokes in June, has a home putting studio and a TrackMan, and practices at TPC Wakefield playing two-ball, best-ball and from the front tees to ingrain shooting low scores and two-ball, worst ball and dropping a ball behind trouble (such as a patch of trees) from a par-3 distance away and trying to make no worse than par as games to improve his scrambling skills. He is a lanky lefty weighing only 129 pounds, but he has the flexibility of Gumby.
“Every time I put him on my Instagram everyone goes, ‘Eat a cheeseburger, dude!’” Gankas said. “He says he’s trying to get fat, but he can’t do it.”
Bhatia may be thin as a rail, but pound-for-pound he’s maximizing his swing speed, averaging 119 mph, and recently sent Gankas a video where he hit 124.8 mph.
“I couldn’t even believe it,” said Bhatia, who credits the gain in velocity to his workouts and is striving for his swing speed and weight to equal the same figure.
As for his upcoming PGA Tour debut, he already arranged to play a practice round with Spaniard Jon Rahm and has his sights set on meeting Australian Jason Day, another of his heroes. And Bhatia’s not shy about how he might do. When asked if he thought he could win, he said, “I don’t see why not. As long as I can treat it like it’s just another event. It’s all about mindset, really.”
SOURCE:  Golfweek
The post “I’ve worked so hard, and that’s one of my dreams to play a PGA Tour event while still in high school.” appeared first on The Golf Club at Summerbrooke.
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ionecoffman · 7 years
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A World Without Suicide
Steve Mallen thinks the signs first started to show when his son stopped playing the piano. Edward, then 18, was a gifted musician and had long since passed his Grade 8 exams, a series of advanced piano tests. Playing had been a passion for most of his life. But as adulthood beckoned, the boy had never been busier. He had won a place to study geography at the University of Cambridge and was reviewing hard for his final exams. At his school, Edward was head boy and popular among pupils and teachers. His younger brother and sister idolized him.
“We didn’t attach any particular significance to it,” says Mallen of what he saw as merely a musical pause. “I think we just thought, ‘Well, the poor lad’s been at the piano for years and years. He’s so busy ... ’ But these are the small things—the ripples in the fabric of normal life—that you don’t necessarily notice but which, as I know now, can be very significant.”
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Three months after Edward stopped playing, and just two weeks after he handed in an English essay his teacher would later describe as among the best he had read, police knocked at the door of the family home in Meldreth, a village 10 miles south of Cambridge. Steve Mallen was at home, alone. “You become painfully aware that something appalling has happened,” he recalls. “You go through the description, they offer commiserations and a booklet, and then they leave. And that’s it. Suddenly you are staring into the most appalling abyss you can ever imagine.”
The next time Mallen heard his son play the piano, the music filled Holy Trinity Parish Church, a mile from the station where Edward caught the train to school every morning, and where he died by suicide on February 9, 2015. Steve says 500 people came to the funeral. Friends had organized a sound system to play a performance of Edward’s filmed on a mobile phone. “My son played the music at his own funeral,” Mallen says as he remembers that day over a mug of tea in a café in central London. “You couldn’t dream this stuff.”
I first talk to Mallen, who is 52, in November 2016, 21 months to the day since Edward’s death. His hair is white; his blazer, navy. He wears a white shirt and a remembrance poppy. He talks in perfect paragraphs with a default setting of businesslike, but it is clear that the abyss still falls away before him. He says it always will. But life has also become a mission, and in the two years since his son’s death by suicide, Mallen, a commercial property consultant, has become a tireless campaigner, a convener of minds. He has earned the prime minister’s ear and given evidence to health select committees. The study at his home is filled with files and research papers.
“As a father, I had one thing to do and I failed,” he says, his voice faltering for the first time. “My son was dying in front of me and I couldn’t see it, despite my education, despite my devotion as a father ... So you see this is coming from an incredible sense of guilt. I suppose what I’m trying to do is save my boy in retrospect. I stood next to his coffin in the church. It was packed with people—a shattered community—and I made him a public promise. I said that I would investigate what had happened to him and that I would seek reform for him, and on behalf of his generation.
“Quite simply, I’m just a guy honoring a promise to his son. And that’s probably the most powerful motivation that you could imagine, because I’m not about to let him down twice.”
* * *
Edward’s suicide was one of 6,188 recorded in the U.K. in 2015, an average of almost 17 a day, or two every three hours. In the U.K., suicide is the leading cause of death among women under 35 and men under 50. The World Health Organization estimates that 788,000 people died by suicide globally in 2015. Somewhere in the world, someone takes their life every 40 seconds. And despite advances in science and a growing political and popular focus on mental health, recorded suicides in the U.K. have declined only slightly over the past few decades, from 14.7 per 100,000 people 36 years ago to 10.9 in 2015.
A simple belief drives Mallen: that Edward should still be alive, that his death was preventable—at several stages during the rapid onset of his depression. Moreover, Mallen and a growing number of mental health experts believe that this applies to all deaths by suicide. They argue that with a well-funded, better-coordinated strategy that would reform attitudes and approaches in almost every function of society—from schools and hospitals to police stations and the family home—it might be possible to prevent every suicide, or at least to aspire to.
They call it Zero Suicide, a bold ambition and slogan that emerged from a Detroit hospital more than a decade ago, and which is now being incorporated into several National Health Service trusts. Since our first meeting, Mallen has himself embraced the idea, and in May of this year held talks with Mersey Care, one of the specialist mental health trusts already applying a zero strategy. His plans are at an early stage, but he is setting out to create a Zero Suicide foundation. He wants it to identify good practices across the 55 mental health trusts in England and create a new strategy to be applied everywhere.
The zero approach is a proactive strategy that aims to identify and care for all those who may be at risk of suicide, rather than reacting once patients have reached crisis point. It emphasizes strong leadership, improved training, better patient screening and the use of the latest data and research to make changes without fear or delay. It is a joined-up strategy that challenges old ideas about the “inevitability” of suicide, stigma, and the idea that if a reduction target is achieved, the deaths on the way to it are somehow acceptable. “Even if you believe we are never going to eradicate suicide, we must strive toward that,” Mallen says. “If zero isn’t the right target, then what is?”
Zero Suicide is not radical, incorporating as it does several existing prevention strategies. But that it should be seen as new and daringly ambitious reveals much about how slowly attitudes have changed. In The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of Working-Class Life (1957), a semiautobiographical examination of the cultural upheavals of the 1950s, Richard Hoggart recalled his upbringing in Leeds. “Every so often one heard that so-and-so had ‘done ’erself in,’ or ‘done away with ’imself,’ or ‘put ’er ’ead in the gas-oven,’” he wrote. “It did not happen monthly or even every season, and not all attempts succeeded; but it happened sufficiently often to be part of the pattern of life.” He wondered how “suicide could be accepted—pitifully but with little suggestion of blame—as part of the order of existence.”
Hoggart was writing about working-class communities in the north of England, but this sense of expectation and inevitability defined broad societal attitudes to suicide as well. It was also a crime. In 1956, 613 people in England and Wales were prosecuted for attempting to “commit” suicide, 33 of whom were imprisoned. The law only changed in 1961, but the stigma endured; mental health experts and the U.K. helpline Samaritans advise against the use of the term “commit” in relation to suicide, preferring “to die by suicide,” but the word still regularly appears in newspaper headlines. The same voices have strongly opposed the view that suicide is “part of the pattern of life,” ultimately giving rise to the idea that its eradication—or at least a drastic reduction—might be possible.
* * *
Traditionally, suicide has been viewed as a deliberate action, a conscious choice. As a result, mental-health systems have tended to regard at-risk patients in one of two ways. “There were the individuals who are at risk but can’t really be stopped,” says David Covington, a Zero Suicide pioneer based in Phoenix, Arizona. “They’re ‘intent on it’ is the phrase you hear. ‘You can’t stop someone who’s fully intent on killing themselves.’ So there is this strange logic that individuals who die couldn’t be stopped because they weren’t going to seek care and tell us what was going on. And those who do talk to us were seen as somehow manipulative because of their ambivalence. You heard the word ‘gesturing.’ So we have this whole language that seemed to minimize the risk.”
Covington is president and CEO of RI International, a mental-health group based in Phoenix that has more than 50 crisis centers and other programs across the United States, as well as a number in Auckland, New Zealand. A prominent and energetic speaker, he is also president-elect of the board of directors of the American Association of Suicidology, a charitable organization based in Washington, D.C., and leads an international Zero Suicide initiative. When he started in mental health more than 20 years ago, he was dismayed by the gaps in training and thinking he found in the system. Breakthroughs have come only recently, long enough for Covington to have observed and promoted a shift away from a fatalism—and a stigma—that was preventing any progress in reducing death from suicide while we eradicated diseases and tackled other threats, such as road accidents and smoking.
Covington credits a book and a bridge with accelerating that change. In Why People Die by Suicide (2005), Thomas Joiner, a professor of psychology at Florida State University, drew on the testimony of survivors, stacks of research and the loss of his own father to upend minds. He recognized the myriad pressures on a suicidal mind—substance abuse, genetic predisposition to mental illness, poverty—but identified three factors present in all of those most at risk: a genuine belief, however irrational, that they have become a burden to those around them; a sense of isolation; and the ability, which goes against our hard-wired instincts of self-preservation, to hurt oneself (this combines access to a means of suicide with what Joiner describes as a “learned fearlessness”; Covington calls it an “acquired capability”). “[The book] gave an architecture to what was going on that we had not seen before,” Covington says. “It was like a crack through the entire field.”
Then came the bridge—or The Bridge, the 2006 documentary about suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge. A swirl of outrage greeted its release, although anger was generally directed at the filmmaker rather than the toll of death and bereavement at the San Francisco landmark. Its maker Eric Steel also faced accusations of ghoulishness; The Bridge features footage of people falling to their deaths and subsequent interviews with their families. “This could be the most morally loathsome film ever made,” film critic Andrew Pulver wrote in The Guardian. Yet Steel intended to shock, and to expose an attitude to suicide on the bridge that exemplified society’s. “It hit the public psyche, it challenged core myths in a way that was extremely powerful,” Covington says.
In the 1970s, local newspapers launched countdowns to the 500th death on the bridge since its completion in 1937 (deaths have occurred on average once every two to three weeks). In 1995, a radio DJ promised a case of Snapple to the 1,000th victim’s family. Only when police intervened did official counting cease, at 997.
For decades the bridge’s directors have resisted calls, on financial and aesthetic grounds, for a safety barrier between the pedestrian walkway—which has a low railing—and the water 75 meters below. In 1953, one bridge supervisor argued that it was better that jumpers die there than on a pavement below a tall building. But in 1978, Richard Seiden, then a professor emeritus at the University of California, Berkeley’s School of Public Health, found 515 people who had been stopped from jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge between 1937 and 1971. Ninety-four percent were living or had died of natural causes.
The study, which Covington says was “ignored for 25 years,” suggested what several others have shown: Simply by removing access to danger, and an easy outlet for “learned fearlessness,” simple interventions can dramatically reduce suicide rates. On a bridge that could not be constantly patrolled, it also intensified calls for a safety net. Later, in 2008, the bridge’s board of directors voted in favor of one. Construction began only in May of this year. The steel net, to be placed six meters below the walkway, is due to be completed in 2021. It is designed not to catch people, but to deter them from jumping.
Anthony Gerace / Mosaic Science
Edward Mallen’s own Golden Gate Bridge was the train station he used every day to get to school. His father Steve will never know what went through his mind that day, but those who survive attempts to take their own life—and go on to talk about it—are being embraced in the fight for further understanding. As of 2005, a year before Steel’s documentary came out, only 26 people had lived after hitting the water below the Golden Gate Bridge at 75 mph. Those whose injuries—broken bones, punctured organs—do not kill them on impact typically then drown in pain. Recovered bodies have shown the effects of shark and crab bites.
Kevin Hines was 19 and suffering from severe bipolar disorder when he caught a bus, alone, toward the bridge in September 2000. His family knew that he had been mentally ill, and he was receiving treatment, but the voices in the young man’s head, which often came with hallucinations, willed him to take his life. They told him that he was nothing but a burden to everyone around him, and that if he revealed to anyone the extent of his suffering he would be locked up. “When you self-loathe long enough, and believe the voices, you lose all hope and suicide becomes an option,” Kevin says by phone from his home in Atlanta. “What people in that position can’t recognize is that the voice is nothing but a liar—a false reality created by your brain’s misaligning chemistry ... they believe the people around them don’t have the ability to empathize.”
Kevin was neglected by his birth parents, who had drug and mental health problems. As a newborn, before he was placed into foster care, they left him alone on the concrete floor of a motel in San Francisco and fed him Coke and stolen, sour milk. A landmark 1998 study published in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine, and cited in a report published in March by the Samaritans, showed that people with exposure to four or more “adverse childhood experiences” (known as ACEs, which include physical abuse, violence against the mother, exposure to substance abuse, or the imprisonment of a parent) were 12 times more likely to have made a suicide attempt in their lifetimes.
Kevin’s devoted adoptive parents were aware something was wrong, and helped him get treatment, but Kevin kept everyone in the dark. He told doctors he was following a plan he had not read and that he was taking his medication, which he only took sporadically, often while drinking until he blacked out. “I was a wrestling state champion, a football player, by all accounts doing great on the outside.” By the night before his bus ride, Kevin had suffered days of decline. “That’s when the bridge was the spot I decided on,” he recalls.
Anthony Gerace / Mosaic Science
Kevin rejects the notion that anyone “chooses” to take their own life. “It’s not a choice when a voice in your head, a third party to your own conscience, is literally screaming in your head, ‘You must die, jump now.’” He also challenges the idea that suicide is a selfish act, because to a person in extremis, compelled to believe they are a burden, living can feel like the selfish act. Yet he also remembers feeling how little it would have taken to deter him that morning in 2000. “I had made a pact with myself, and many survivors report this, that if anyone said to me that day, ‘Are you OK?’ or ‘Is something wrong?’ or ‘Can I help you?’—I narrowed it down to those three phrases—I would tell them everything and beg for help.” As he sat on the bus, where he remembers crying, yelling aloud at the voices to stop, nobody said anything. “It still baffles me that human beings can’t see someone like that, wailing in pain, and say something kind—anything,” he says.
As Kevin walked along the bridge and leaned over the rail, he thought help might have arrived when a woman approached him. “But she pulled out a digital camera and asked me to take her picture. She had a German accent. I figured the sun was in her eyes, maybe she didn’t see the tears. So I take this woman’s picture five times, hand her the camera, she thanks me and walks away. At that moment I said, ‘Absolutely nobody cares. Nobody.’ The voice said, ‘Jump now,’ so I did.”
It takes just under five seconds for a person to fall from the Golden Gate Bridge into the water below. “It was instant regret the moment my hand left the rail,” Kevin recalls. “But it was too late.” He opened his eyes deep underwater, his spine broken. “All I wanted to do was survive. I remember thinking, before I broke the surface, I can’t die here. If I do, nobody will know I didn’t want to die, that I’d made a mistake.” Kevin struggled to stay afloat while the coastguard came to his aid. He spent weeks recovering in a psychiatric ward and says it took years to be honest with himself about his mental health. He still works hard to stay stable, and has become a powerful voice in suicide prevention, as a researcher, writer and speaker. “Of the 25 or 26 people who have survived jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge and are still alive, 19 have said they felt instant regret the second their hand left the rail,” he says. “The act of suicide is separate from the thought of suicide.”
Removing the means of suicide has become a growing part of modern prevention strategies, whether or not they come with a “zero” tag. In the early 2000s, the U.K. Department of Health asked the National Confidential Inquiry into Suicide and Homicide by People with Mental Illness, based at the University of Manchester, to recommend a way to reduce suicides in mental health wards. “From our data, we said remove the ligature points that make it possible for people to hang themselves,” recalls Louis Appleby, a professor of psychiatry and the director of the inquiry. He also leads the National Suicide Prevention Strategy for England.
By 2002, wards were required to remove non-collapsible curtain rails in bathrooms and around beds. A later study by Appleby’s team, published in 2012, showed that inpatient suicide cases by hanging on the ward in England and Wales fell from 57 in 1999 to 15 in 2007. “There was also a broader effect, because mental health wards seem to have got safer more generally as the issue of safety became more prominent,” Appleby says. Outside hospitals, measures that have reduced suicide by specific methods, whether or not that was the intention, have included legislation to reduce the size of paracetamol packages (intended) and the conversion of coal-gas ovens to natural gas in the 1950s (unintended).
* * *
Edward Mallen and Kevin Hines had some things in common; they were young men suffering from severe mental illness. But while Kevin identifies his traumatic first months as a cause, Edward had no adverse childhood experiences. His father is not aware of a history of depression in his family, but can only surmise that genetic flaws created the fatal cocktail of chemicals that compelled him to end his life. Research in this field is evolving. Last year, scientists at Massachusetts General Hospital identified 17 genetic variations that appeared to increase the risk of depression, in an analysis of DNA data from more than 300,000 people, published in Nature Genetics. “There are vulnerability factors we all have and part of them are genetically influenced,” says Rory O’Connor, a professor of psychology at the University of Glasgow, where he leads the Suicidal Behavior Research Laboratory.
More significantly, Kevin and Edward both attempted suicide while seeking treatment for mental illness. According to the National Confidential Inquiry into Suicide and Homicide by People with Mental Illness, just over a quarter of suicide victims have had contact with mental health services in the preceding 12 months. Soon after the piano playing stopped, it became clear Edward was not well. Mallen remembers his son withdrawing. He became pale and looked unwell. He told his mother, Suzanne, that he was down, but never revealed to his parents he felt suicidal. Two weeks before his death, Edward saw his family’s general practitioner, who immediately referred him to an NHS crisis intervention team, recommending he be assessed within 24 hours. But when a triage mental health nurse with limited experience spoke to Edward, he downgraded the risk and recommended a five-day wait. Moreover, while Edward had turned 18 less than two months before his death, he had given permission for his parents to be told about his suicidal thoughts. They never were.
After an inquest in June last year, Cambridgeshire and Peterborough NHS Foundation Trust said in a statement that “while there are elements in what occurred that may well not have been foreseeable there were also things the Trust could have done better. The Trust has held an internal inquiry and also commissioned an independent report and it is implementing [their] recommendations.”
Mallen describes in an email his son’s case as “a haphazard fiasco of confused process, unclear responsibilities and tortuous post-tragedy contention which greatly deepened a family’s distress,” adding: “The real concern here is that this was not an isolated incident.”
The Zero Suicide approach started as an attempt to reduce deaths in mental health systems. At a meeting in 2001 at the Henry Ford Health System, which manages hospitals, clinics and emergency rooms across Detroit, Ed Coffey, then the CEO of its Behavioral Health Services, remembers discussing Crossing the Quality Chasm, a report published that year by the Institute of Medicine (now the National Academy of Medicine) that called for sweeping healthcare reforms. The report had triggered a debate about the idea of “perfect care,” and Coffey wondered what that might mean for mental health. “I remember a nurse raising her hand and saying, ‘Well, perhaps if we were providing perfect depression care, none of our patients would commit suicide,’” Coffey has said. (Coffey, who is now president and CEO of the Menninger Clinic, a psychiatric hospital in Houston, Texas, did not respond to requests for interview.)
Coffey took that as a challenge and set about reforming the Henry Ford Health System’s own approach with a new, Zero Suicide goal in mind. The initiative involved improvements in access to care and restrictions in access to the means of suicide. Any patient with a mental illness was treated as a suicide risk and asked two questions at every visit: “How often have you felt down in the past two weeks?” and “How often have you felt little pleasure in doing things?” High scores triggered new questions about sleep deprivation, appetite loss and thoughts about self-harm. Screenings would create personal care and safety plans and involve a patient’s family. Every death would be studied as a “learning opportunity.”
What caught global attention were the results that the Henry Ford system reported. In 1999, its annual suicide rate for mental health patients stood at 110 per 100,000. In the following 11 years, there were 160 suicides, but the average rate fell to 36 per 100,000. And in 2009, for the first time, there were zero suicides among patients. The stats were startling. But the strategy also faced criticism, partly in the way staff felt it made medical professionals hostages to fortune, with many already operating in a culture of blame. Louis Appleby also points out a lack of hard evidence to back up the strategy. But he does believe in its power to raise the profile of suicide prevention and compel mental health authorities to consider their own practices. At Magellan Health Services in Arizona, where Covington was an early adopter of Zero Suicide before moving to RI International, the network has reported a 50 percent fall in the suicide rate in the past 10 years. “We had an enormous pushback in our community and healthcare providers to get started,” he admits. “But as soon as the resistance gave way, ‘zero’ goes into the brain ... Once that seed plants, people get really excited.”
* * *
In 2013, Ed Coffey visited Mersey Care—which employs more than 5,000 people and serves more than 10 million across North West England—to talk about suicide prevention. In 2015, the trust, which sees more than 40,000 patients a year, became the first in the U.K. to adopt a Zero Suicide policy, which it ratified last year, committing to eliminating suicide from within its care by 2020. In a nondescript office at the trust’s headquarters at a business park in east Liverpool, I meet Jane Boland, a health administrator and Mersey Care’s suicide prevention clinical lead. When she started as a mental health clinician 18 years ago, she says suicide training did not exist. “We weren’t taught how to speak to someone who is suicidal,” she recalls. “It was talked about as an occupational hazard, an inevitability.” As part of Mersey Care’s new policy, Boland is responsible for delivering training to all the trust’s staff, from senior clinicians to receptionists and cleaners. “And these 5,000 people don’t exist in isolation,” she says. “They’re out in the city, on trains, noticing when people aren’t feeling great.”
The training begins with an online course designed to help staff look out for signs of distress. It also challenges the inevitability and selfishness myths around suicide. Boland gives talks too, and invites people who have been affected by suicide to share their experiences. She has even persuaded her own husband to talk about the death by suicide of his sister when he was 16 and she was 21. “He’d talked to me about it, but I hadn’t realized I was one of about four people he’d ever told,” Boland says. “Now he tells hundreds of people that there’s not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about this sister, and you can hear a pin drop.”
Anthony Gerace / Mosaic Science
Mersey Care’s plan also includes easier access to crisis care, better safety plans for each patient and swifter investigations after deaths or suicide attempts, with a focus on learning rather than blame. Joe Rafferty, the trust’s chief executive, told me in May this year that it is too soon for the policy to have shown an effect on its suicide rates, which are 5.5 per 100,000 patient contacts (Rafferty says this equates to a death per fortnight on average, and places Mersey Care in the lowest 20 percent of mental health trusts).
“But the big win has been around culture and attitude,” he says. “Even two years ago I’d talk to senior colleagues about suicide and the conversation would finish with, ‘Don’t worry, we’re in the lowest quintile’ or ‘We benchmark very favorably’ ... The biggest change has been moving to an absolute view that the benchmark should be zero.”
Rafferty sees the Zero Suicide foundation he has discussed with Steve Mallen as a way to spread this thinking to other trusts, and to any organization that might be willing to change. Mersey Care is already trying to reach some of the 70 percent of suicide victims who do not have contact with mental health services in the year before they die. Boland works with local authorities and has delivered suicide training to Job Center staff in Liverpool. The trust is in talks about delivering training to taxi drivers and barbers.
Versions of a Zero Suicide strategy have also been adopted by NHS clinical networks covering large areas of the southwest and the east of England. The spread of the approach coincides with belated political focus on suicide. In January 2015, Nick Clegg, then the deputy prime minister, launched a new mental health initiative and called on the NHS to adopt a Zero Suicide campaign. Earlier this year, the health select committee welcomed the Zero Suicide pilots, but noted that the strategy had not been more widely adopted, while outcomes were still to be evaluated. The most recent Conservative manifesto made no mention of suicide, but reaffirmed government commitment to improving mental health care. The current government target, set by the independent Mental Health Taskforce, is a modest reduction of 10 percent by 2020. Meanwhile, mental health advocates are pushing hard for better funding for mental health research, which remains a fraction of that devoted to physical health conditions such as cancer.
* * *
As a businessman, Steve Mallen finds it hard to understand why, if not the moral case for suicide prevention alone, the economic case has not brought about more rapid change.
“We’re losing so many people who would have gone on to contribute to society,” Mallen says. He wants a new focus on earlier intervention, in schools and homes and general practitioners’ offices, to identify problems before they lead to crisis, and improvements in mental health literacy. “Edward existed in a family, in a friendship group, at a sixth-form college and nobody picked up what was happening to him,” he says. “Yet in retrospect when I think back, the signs were there.”
Edward’s death devastated his family. “He was empathetic, sharing, nurturing,” Mallen says, preferring not to name his other two children, who are themselves now approaching adulthood. “We never had a lot of squabbling. He also kept me and Suzanne in check. He was wise beyond his years. Losing any member of a family is difficult, but it’s like the heart has been ripped out of the middle of ours and that has made it practically impossible.”
Mallen, in common with the mental health experts I speak to, does not believe total eradication is possible. Suicide will always be more complicated than polio. But no one doubts that huge reductions can—and must—be made, and there is a growing body of evidence to show how. If there is one thing he could change first, it would be continuing shifts in attitudes.
“Why didn’t my son ask for help?” he says as he heads to the station for the train home to Cambridge. “If my son had been taught about mental health in the same way he was taught about diet, citizenship, physical health, he would have understood that it’s okay to feel shit. But despite his brilliance, he didn’t have the education to help him come forward. At the start of that eight-week period when he stopped playing the piano, he would have said, ‘Dad, I think I might need some help.’ And we’d have got him help.”
This post appears courtesy of Mosaic.
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A World Without Suicide
Steve Mallen thinks the signs first started to show when his son stopped playing the piano. Edward, then 18, was a gifted musician and had long since passed his Grade 8 exams. Playing had been a passion for most of his life. But as adulthood beckoned, the boy had never been busier. He had won a place to study geography at the University of Cambridge and was revising hard for his A levels. At his school, Edward was head boy and popular among pupils and teachers. His younger brother and sister idolized him.
“We didn’t attach any particular significance to it,” says Mallen of what he saw as merely a musical pause. “I think we just thought, ‘Well, the poor lad’s been at the piano for years and years. He’s so busy ... ’ But these are the small things—the ripples in the fabric of normal life—that you don’t necessarily notice but which, as I know now, can be very significant.”
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Three months after Edward stopped playing, and just two weeks after he handed in an English essay his teacher would later describe as among the best he had read, police knocked at the door of the family home in Meldreth, a village 10 miles south of Cambridge. Steve Mallen was at home, alone. “You become painfully aware that something appalling has happened,” he recalls. “You go through the description, they offer commiserations and a booklet, and then they leave. And that’s it. Suddenly you are staring into the most appalling abyss you can ever imagine.”
The next time Mallen heard his son play the piano, the music filled Holy Trinity Parish Church, a mile from the station where Edward caught the train to school every morning, and where he died by suicide on February 9, 2015. Steve says 500 people came to the funeral. Friends had organized a sound system to play a performance of Edward’s filmed on a mobile phone. “My son played the music at his own funeral,” Mallen says as he remembers that day over a mug of tea in a café in central London. “You couldn’t dream this stuff.”
I first talk to Mallen, who is 52, in November 2016, 21 months to the day since Edward’s death. His hair is white; his blazer, navy. He wears a white shirt and a remembrance poppy. He talks in perfect paragraphs with a default setting of businesslike, but it is clear that the abyss still falls away before him. He says it always will. But life has also become a mission, and in the two years since his son’s death by suicide, Mallen, a commercial property consultant, has become a tireless campaigner, a convenor of minds. He has earned the prime minister’s ear and given evidence to health select committees. The study at his home is filled with files and research papers.
“As a father, I had one thing to do and I failed,” he says, his voice faltering for the first time. “My son was dying in front of me and I couldn’t see it, despite my education, despite my devotion as a father ... So you see this is coming from an incredible sense of guilt. I suppose what I’m trying to do is save my boy in retrospect. I stood next to his coffin in the church. It was packed with people—a shattered community—and I made him a public promise. I said that I would investigate what had happened to him and that I would seek reform for him, and on behalf of his generation.
“Quite simply, I’m just a guy honouring a promise to his son. And that’s probably the most powerful motivation that you could imagine, because I’m not about to let him down twice.”
* * *
Edward’s suicide was one of 6,188 recorded in the U.K. in 2015, an average of almost 17 a day, or two every three hours. In the U.K., suicide is the leading cause of death among women under 35 and men under 50. The World Health Organization estimates that 788,000 people died by suicide globally in 2015. Somewhere in the world, someone takes their life every 40 seconds. And despite advances in science and a growing political and popular focus on mental health, recorded suicides in the U.K. have declined only slightly over the past few decades, from 14.7 per 100,000 people 36 years ago to 10.9 in 2015.
A simple belief drives Mallen: that Edward should still be alive, that his death was preventable—at several stages during the rapid onset of his depression. Moreover, Mallen and a growing number of mental health experts believe that this applies to all deaths by suicide. They argue that with a well-funded, better-coordinated strategy that would reform attitudes and approaches in almost every function of society—from schools and hospitals to police stations and the family home—it might be possible to prevent every suicide, or at least to aspire to.
They call it Zero Suicide, a bold ambition and slogan that emerged from a Detroit hospital more than a decade ago, and which is now being incorporated into several NHS trusts. Since our first meeting, Mallen has himself embraced the idea, and in May of this year held talks with Mersey Care, one of the specialist mental health trusts already applying a zero strategy. His plans are at an early stage, but he is setting out to create a Zero Suicide foundation. He wants it to identify good practices across the 55 mental health trusts in England and create a new strategy to be applied everywhere.
The zero approach is a proactive strategy that aims to identify and care for all those who may be at risk of suicide, rather than reacting once patients have reached crisis point. It emphasizes strong leadership, improved training, better patient screening and the use of the latest data and research to make changes without fear or delay. It is a joined-up strategy that challenges old ideas about the “inevitability” of suicide, stigma, and the idea that if a reduction target is achieved, the deaths on the way to it are somehow acceptable. “Even if you believe we are never going to eradicate suicide, we must strive toward that,” Mallen says. “If zero isn’t the right target, then what is?”
Zero Suicide is not radical, incorporating as it does several existing prevention strategies. But that it should be seen as new and daringly ambitious reveals much about how slowly attitudes have changed. In The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of working-class life (1957), a semiautobiographical examination of the cultural upheavals of the 1950s, Richard Hoggart recalled his upbringing in Leeds. “Every so often one heard that so-and-so had ‘done ’erself in,’ or ‘done away with ’imself,’ or ‘put ’er ’ead in the gas-oven,’” he wrote. “It did not happen monthly or even every season, and not all attempts succeeded; but it happened sufficiently often to be part of the pattern of life.” He wondered how “suicide could be accepted—pitifully but with little suggestion of blame—as part of the order of existence.”
Hoggart was writing about working-class communities in the north of England, but this sense of expectation and inevitability defined broad societal attitudes to suicide as well. It was also a crime. In 1956, 613 people in England and Wales were prosecuted for attempting to “commit” suicide, 33 of whom were imprisoned. The law only changed in 1961, but the stigma endured; the Samaritans and mental health experts advise against the use of the term “commit” in relation to suicide, preferring “to die by suicide,” but the word still regularly appears in newspaper headlines. The same voices have strongly opposed the view that suicide is “part of the pattern of life,” ultimately giving rise to the idea that its eradication—or at least a drastic reduction—might be possible.
* * *
Traditionally, suicide has been viewed as a deliberate action, a conscious choice. As a result, mental-health systems have tended to regard at-risk patients in one of two ways. “There were the individuals who are at risk but can’t really be stopped,” says David Covington, a Zero Suicide pioneer based in Phoenix, Arizona. “They’re ‘intent on it’ is the phrase you hear. ‘You can’t stop someone who’s fully intent on killing themselves.’ So there is this strange logic that individuals who die couldn’t be stopped because they weren’t going to seek care and tell us what was going on. And those who do talk to us were seen as somehow manipulative because of their ambivalence. You heard the word ‘gesturing.’ So we have this whole language that seemed to minimize the risk.”
Covington is president and CEO of RI International, a mental-health group based in Phoenix that has more than 50 crisis centers and other programs across the USA, as well as a number in Auckland, New Zealand. A prominent and energetic speaker, he is also president-elect of the board of directors of the American Association of Suicidology, a charitable organization based in Washington, D.C., and leads an international Zero Suicide initiative. When he started in mental health more than 20 years ago, he was dismayed by the gaps in training and thinking he found in the system. Breakthroughs have come only recently, long enough for Covington to have observed and promoted a shift away from a fatalism—and a stigma—that was preventing any progress in reducing death from suicide while we eradicated diseases and tackled other threats, such as road accidents and smoking.
Covington credits a book and a bridge with accelerating that change. In Why People Die by Suicide (2005), Thomas Joiner, a professor of psychology at Florida State University, drew on the testimony of survivors, stacks of research and the loss of his own father to upend minds. He recognized the myriad pressures on a suicidal mind—substance abuse, genetic predisposition to mental illness, poverty—but identified three factors present in all of those most at risk: a genuine belief, however irrational, that they have become a burden to those around them; a sense of isolation; and the ability, which goes against our hard-wired instincts of self-preservation, to hurt oneself (this combines access to a means of suicide with what Joiner describes as a “learned fearlessness”; Covington calls it an “acquired capability”). “[The book] gave an architecture to what was going on that we had not seen before,” Covington says. “It was like a crack through the entire field.”
Then came the bridge—or The Bridge, the 2006 documentary about suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge. A swirl of outrage greeted its release, although anger was generally directed at the film-maker rather than the toll of death and bereavement at the San Francisco landmark. Its maker Eric Steel also faced accusations of ghoulishness; The Bridge features footage of people falling to their deaths and subsequent interviews with their families. “This could be the most morally loathsome film ever made,” film critic Andrew Pulver wrote in the Guardian. Yet Steel intended to shock, and to expose an attitude to suicide on the bridge that exemplified society’s. “It hit the public psyche, it challenged core myths in a way that was extremely powerful,” Covington says.
In the 1970s, local newspapers launched countdowns to the 500th death on the bridge since its completion in 1937 (deaths have occurred on average once every two to three weeks). In 1995, a radio DJ promised a case of Snapple to the 1,000th victim’s family. Only when police intervened did official counting cease, at 997.
For decades the bridge’s directors have resisted calls, on financial and aesthetic grounds, for a safety barrier between the pedestrian walkway—which has a low railing—and the water 75 meters below. In 1953, one bridge supervisor argued that it was better that jumpers die there than on a pavement below a tall building. But in 1978, Richard Seiden, then a professor emeritus at the University of California, Berkeley’s School of Public Health, found 515 people who had been stopped from jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge between 1937 and 1971. Ninety-four per cent were living or had died of natural causes.
The study, which Covington says was “ignored for 25 years,” suggested what several others have shown: Simply by removing access to danger, and an easy outlet for “learned fearlessness,” simple interventions can dramatically reduce suicide rates. On a bridge that could not be constantly patrolled, it also intensified calls for a safety net. Later, in 2008, the bridge’s board of directors voted in favor of one. Construction began only in May of this year. The steel net, to be placed six meters below the walkway, is due to be completed in 2021. It is designed not to catch people, but to deter them from jumping.
Anthony Gerace / Mosaic Science
Edward Mallen’s own Golden Gate Bridge was the train station he used every day to get to school. His father Steve will never know what went through his mind that day, but those who survive attempts to take their own life—and go on to talk about it—are being embraced in the fight for further understanding. As of 2005, a year before Steel’s documentary came out, only 26 people had lived after hitting the water below the Golden Gate Bridge at 75 mph. Those whose injuries—broken bones, punctured organs—do not kill them on impact typically then drown in pain. Recovered bodies have shown the effects of shark and crab bites.
Kevin Hines was 19 and suffering from severe bipolar disorder when he caught a bus, alone, toward the bridge in September 2000. His family knew that he had been mentally ill, and he was receiving treatment, but the voices in the young man’s head, which often came with hallucinations, willed him to take his life. They told him that he was nothing but a burden to everyone around him, and that if he revealed to anyone the extent of his suffering he would be locked up. “When you self-loath long enough, and believe the voices, you lose all hope and suicide becomes an option,” Kevin says by phone from his home in Atlanta. “What people in that position can’t recognize is that the voice is nothing but a liar—a false reality created by your brain’s misaligning chemistry ... they believe the people around them don’t have the ability to empathize.”
Kevin was neglected by his birth parents, who had drug and mental health problems. As a newborn, before he was placed into foster care, they left him alone on the concrete floor of a motel in San Francisco and fed him Coke and stolen, sour milk. A landmark 1998 study published in the American Journal of Preventive Medicine, and cited in a report published last March by the Samaritans, showed that people with exposure to four or more “adverse childhood experiences” (known as ACEs, which include physical abuse, violence against the mother, exposure to substance abuse or the imprisonment of a parent) were 12 times more likely to have made a suicide attempt in their lifetimes.
Kevin’s devoted adoptive parents were aware something was wrong, and helped him get treatment, but Kevin kept everyone in the dark. He told doctors he was following a plan he had not read and that he was taking his medication, which he only took sporadically, often while drinking until he blacked out. “I was a wrestling state champion, a football player, by all accounts doing great on the outside.” By the night before his bus ride, Kevin had suffered days of decline. “That’s when the bridge was the spot I decided on,” he recalls.
Anthony Gerace / Mosaic Science
Kevin rejects the notion that anyone “chooses” to take their own life. “It’s not a choice when a voice in your head, a third party to your own conscience, is literally screaming in your head, “You must die, jump now.’” He also challenges the idea that suicide is a selfish act, because to a person in extremis, compelled to believe they are a burden, living can feel like the selfish act. Yet he also remembers feeling how little it would have taken to deter him that morning in 2000. “I had made a pact with myself, and many survivors report this, that if anyone said to me that day, ‘Are you OK?’ or ‘Is something wrong?’ or ‘Can I help you?’—I narrowed it down to those three phrases—I would tell them everything and beg for help.” As he sat on the bus, where he remembers crying, yelling aloud at the voices to stop, nobody said anything. “It still baffles me that human beings can’t see someone like that, wailing in pain, and say something kind—anything,” he says.
As Kevin walked along the bridge and leaned over the rail, he thought help might have arrived when a woman approached him. “But she pulled out a digital camera and asked me to take her picture. She had a German accent. I figured the sun was in her eyes, maybe she didn’t see the tears. So I take this woman’s picture five times, hand her the camera, she thanks me and walks away. At that moment I said, ‘Absolutely nobody cares. Nobody.’ The voice said, ‘Jump now,’ so I did.”
It takes just under five seconds for a person to fall from the Golden Gate Bridge into the water below. “It was instant regret the moment my hand left the rail,” Kevin recalls. “But it was too late.” He opened his eyes deep underwater, his spine broken. “All I wanted to do was survive. I remember thinking, before I broke the surface, I can’t die here. If I do, nobody will know I didn’t want to die, that I’d made a mistake.” Kevin struggled to stay afloat while the coastguard came to his aid. He spent weeks recovering on a psychiatric ward and says it took years to be honest with himself about his mental health. He still works hard to stay stable, and has become a powerful voice in suicide prevention, as a researcher, writer and speaker. “Of the 25 or 26 people who have survived jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge and are still alive, 19 have said they felt instant regret the second their hand left the rail,” he says. “The act of suicide is separate from the thought of suicide.”
Removing the means of suicide has become a growing part of modern prevention strategies, whether or not they come with a “zero” tag. In the early 2000s, the U.K. Department of Health asked the National Confidential Inquiry into Suicide and Homicide by People with Mental Illness, based at the University of Manchester, to recommend a way to reduce suicides on mental health wards. “From our data, we said remove the ligature points that make it possible for people to hang themselves,” recalls Louis Appleby, a professor of psychiatry and the director of the inquiry. He also leads the National Suicide Prevention Strategy for England.
By 2002, wards were required to remove non-collapsible curtain rails in bathrooms and around beds. A later study by Appleby’s team, published in 2012, showed that inpatient suicide cases by hanging on the ward in England and Wales fell from 57 in 1999 to 15 in 2007. “There was also a broader effect, because mental health wards seem to have got safer more generally as the issue of safety became more prominent,” Appleby says. Outside hospitals, measures that have reduced suicide by specific methods, whether or not that was the intention, have included legislation to reduce the size of paracetamol packages (intended) and the conversion of coal-gas ovens to natural gas in the 1950s (unintended).
* * *
Edward Mallen and Kevin Hines had some things in common; they were young men suffering from severe mental illness. But while Kevin identifies his traumatic first months as a cause, Edward had no adverse childhood experiences. His father is not aware of a history of depression in his family, but can only surmise that genetic flaws created the fatal cocktail of chemicals that compelled him to end his life. Research in this field is evolving. Last year, scientists at Massachusetts General Hospital identified 17 genetic variations that appeared to increase the risk of depression, in an analysis of DNA data from more than 300,000 people, published in Nature Genetics. “There are vulnerability factors we all have and part of them are genetically influenced,” says Rory O’Connor, a professor of psychology at the University of Glasgow, where he leads the Suicidal Behavior Research Laboratory.
More significantly, Kevin and Edward both attempted suicide while seeking treatment for mental illness. According to the National Confidential Inquiry into Suicide and Homicide by People with Mental Illness, just over a quarter of suicide victims have had contact with mental health services in the preceding 12 months. Soon after the piano playing stopped, it became clear Edward was not well. Mallen remembers his son withdrawing. He became pale and looked unwell. He told his mother, Suzanne, that he was down, but never revealed to his parents he felt suicidal. Two weeks before his death, Edward saw his family’s GP, who immediately referred him to an NHS crisis intervention team, recommending he be assessed within 24 hours. But when a triage mental health nurse with limited experience spoke to Edward, he downgraded the risk and recommended a five-day wait. Moreover, while Edward had turned 18 less than two months before his death, he had given permission for his parents to be told about his suicidal thoughts. They never were.
After an inquest in June last year, Cambridgeshire and Peterborough NHS Foundation Trust said in a statement that “while there are elements in what occurred that may well not have been foreseeable there were also things the Trust could have done better. The Trust has held an internal enquiry and also commissioned an independent report and it is implementing [their] recommendations.”
Mallen describes in an email his son’s case as “a haphazard fiasco of confused process, unclear responsibilities and tortuous post-tragedy contention which greatly deepened a family’s distress,” adding: “The real concern here is that this was not an isolated incident.”
The Zero Suicide approach started as an attempt to reduce deaths in mental health systems. At a meeting in 2001 at the Henry Ford Health System, which manages hospitals, clinics and emergency rooms across Detroit, Ed Coffey, then the CEO of its Behavioural Health Services, remembers discussing Crossing the Quality Chasm, a report published that year by the US Institute of Medicine that called for sweeping healthcare reforms. The report had triggered a debate about the idea of “perfect care,” and Coffey wondered what that might mean for mental health. “I remember a nurse raising her hand and saying, ‘Well, perhaps if we were providing perfect depression care, none of our patients would commit suicide,’” Coffey has said. (Coffey, who is now president and CEO of the Menninger Clinic, a psychiatric hospital in Houston, Texas, did not respond to requests for interview.)
Coffey took that as a challenge and set about reforming the Henry Ford Health System’s own approach with a new, Zero Suicide goal in mind. The initiative involved improvements in access to care and restrictions in access to the means of suicide. Any patient with a mental illness was treated as a suicide risk and asked two questions at every visit: “How often have you felt down in the past two weeks?” and “How often have you felt little pleasure in doing things?” High scores triggered new questions about sleep deprivation, appetite loss and thoughts about self-harm. Screenings would create personal care and safety plans and involve a patient’s family. Every death would be studied as a “learning opportunity.”
What caught global attention were the results that the Henry Ford system reported. In 1999, its annual suicide rate for mental health patients stood at 110 per 100,000. In the following 11 years, there were 160 suicides, but the average rate fell to 36 per 100,000. And in 2009, for the first time, there were zero suicides among patients. The stats were startling. But the strategy also faced criticism, partly in the way staff felt it made medical professionals hostages to fortune, with many already operating in a culture of blame. Louis Appleby also points out a lack of hard evidence to back up the strategy. But he does believe in its power to raise the profile of suicide prevention and compel mental health authorities to consider their own practices. At Magellan Health Services in Arizona, where Covington was an early adopter of Zero Suicide before moving to RI International, the network has reported a 50 per cent fall in the suicide rate in the past 10 years. “We had an enormous pushback in our community and healthcare providers to get started,” he admits. “But as soon as the resistance gave way, ‘zero’ goes into the brain ... Once that seed plants, people get really excited.”
* * *
In 2013, Ed Coffey visited Mersey Care—which employs more than 5,000 people and serves more than 10 million across the Northwest—to talk about suicide prevention. In 2015, the trust, which sees more than 40,000 patients a year, became the first in the U.K. to adopt a Zero Suicide policy, which it ratified last year, committing to eliminating suicide from within its care by 2020. In a nondescript office at the trust’s headquarters at a business park in east Liverpool, I meet Jane Boland, a health administrator and Mersey Care’s suicide prevention clinical lead. When she started as a mental health clinician 18 years ago, she says suicide training did not exist. “We weren’t taught how to speak to someone who is suicidal,” she recalls. “It was talked about as an occupational hazard, an inevitability.” As part of Mersey Care’s new policy, Boland is responsible for delivering training to all the trust’s staff, from senior clinicians to receptionists and cleaners. “And these 5,000 people don’t exist in isolation,” she says. “They’re out in the city, on trains, noticing when people aren’t feeling great.”
The training begins with an online course designed to help staff look out for signs of distress. It also challenges the inevitability and selfishness myths around suicide. Boland gives talks too, and invites people who have been affected by suicide to share their experiences. She has even persuaded her own husband to talk about the death by suicide of his sister when he was 16 and she was 21. “He’d talked to me about it, but I hadn’t realized I was one of about four people he’d ever told,” Boland says. “Now he tells hundreds of people that there’s not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about this sister, and you can hear a pin drop.”
Anthony Gerace / Mosaic Science
Mersey Care’s plan also includes easier access to crisis care, better safety plans for each patient and swifter investigations after deaths or suicide attempts, with a focus on learning rather than blame. Joe Rafferty, the trust’s chief executive, told me in May this year that it is too soon for the policy to have shown an effect on its suicide rates, which are 5.5 per 100,000 patient contacts (Rafferty says this equates to a death per fortnight on average, and places Mersey Care in the lowest 20 per cent of mental health trusts).
“But the big win has been around culture and attitude,” he says. “Even two years ago I’d talk to senior colleagues about suicide and the conversation would finish with, ‘Don’t worry, we’re in the lowest quintile’ or ‘We benchmark very favourably’ ... The biggest change has been moving to an absolute view that the benchmark should be zero.”
Rafferty sees the Zero Suicide foundation he has discussed with Steve Mallen as a way to spread this thinking to other trusts, and to any organization that might be willing to change. Mersey Care is already trying to reach some of the 70 per cent of suicide victims who do not have contact with mental health services in the year before they die. Boland works with local authorities and has delivered suicide training to Job Centre staff in Liverpool. The trust is in talks about delivering training to taxi drivers and barbers.
Versions of a Zero Suicide strategy have also been adopted by NHS clinical networks covering large areas of the south-west and the east of England. The spread of the approach coincides with belated political focus on suicide. In January 2015, Nick Clegg, then the deputy prime minister, launched a new mental health initiative and called on the NHS to adopt a Zero Suicide campaign. Earlier this year, the health select committee welcomed the Zero Suicide pilots, but noted that the strategy had not been more widely adopted, while outcomes were still to be evaluated. The most recent Conservative manifesto made no mention of suicide, but reaffirmed government commitment to improving mental health care. The current government target, set by the independent Mental Health Taskforce, is a modest reduction of 10 per cent by 2020. Meanwhile, mental health advocates are pushing hard for better funding for mental health research, which remains a fraction of that devoted to physical health conditions such as cancer.
* * *
As a businessman, Steve Mallen finds it hard to understand why, if not the moral case for suicide prevention alone, the economic case has not brought about more rapid change.
“We’re losing so many people who would have gone on to contribute to society,” Mallen says. He wants a new focus on earlier intervention, in schools and homes and GP surgeries, to identify problems before they lead to crisis, and improvements in mental health literacy. “Edward existed in a family, in a friendship group, at a sixth-form college and nobody picked up what was happening to him,” he says. “Yet in retrospect when I think back, the signs were there.”
Edward’s death devastated his family. “He was empathetic, sharing, nurturing,” Mallen says, preferring not to name his other two children, who are themselves now approaching adulthood. “We never had a lot of squabbling. He also kept me and Suzanne in check. He was wise beyond his years. Losing any member of a family is difficult, but it’s like the heart has been ripped out of the middle of ours and that has made it practically impossible.”
Mallen, in common with the mental health experts I speak to, does not believe total eradication is possible. Suicide will always be more complicated than polio. But no one doubts that huge reductions can—and must—be made, and there is a growing body of evidence to show how. If there is one thing he could change first, it would be continuing shifts in attitudes.
“Why didn’t my son ask for help?” he says as he heads to the station for the train home to Cambridge. “If my son had been taught about mental health in the same way he was taught about diet, citizenship, physical health, he would have understood that it’s OK to feel shit. But despite his brilliance, he didn’t have the education to help him come forward. At the start of that eight-week period when he stopped playing the piano, he would have said, ‘Dad, I think I might need some help.’ And we’d have got him help.”
This post appears courtesy of Mosaic.
from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2017/08/zero-suicide-strategy/535587/?utm_source=feed
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