Robert McNeil: Low self esteem has its high points, the only way is down

Published on Monday 6 July 2009 19:57

HOW predictably discombobulating to read that self-help books make people feel worse.

I intend challenging the thesis in that opening bombshell sentence later below, when I have marshalled my arguments and ignored the evidence. For the time being, though, let's set out the claims as fairly and hysterically as we can.

The study under advisement appears in the latest edition of Psychological Science incorporating Car Sales Monthly. It says typical advice in self-help books to tell yourself "I am a loveable person" only works if you already have high self-esteem. If you don't, other voices in your heid tell you: "No, I'm not"; "Just ignore these exercises and go on to the next chapter"; and "This is rubbish. I'm going out for a pint."

The point is that real evidence from readers' lives holds more sway than cheesy mantras based on airy hope rather than solid experience. Thus, according to the top Canadian scientists behind this controversial work, those in a low self-esteem group they recruited from somewhere – did they put an ad in the paper, saying "Losers wanted"? – felt worse after repeating the mantra. Those in the high self-esteem group – known in sociological terms as "prats" – felt better, but only slightly. They already loved themselves quite enough, thank you.

Intriguingly, those with low self-esteem felt better when allowed negative thoughts than when requested to think positive. This is encouraging news for those of us who see life's glass as half-empty, and who believe the non-empty bit is undrinkable anyway.

Unfortunately, a British researcher has advised that, rather than telling yourself porkies about how things are better than they really are, you should seek counselling to build your confidence. And what is the fundamental flaw in that analysis, readers? That's right: all counselling is bilge, generally offered by dodgy people less intelligent than you are.

The same researcher is, however, spot-on when he says: "If you're not close to your parents, don't have many friends, are unemployed and are unhappy with your appearance, it might be hard to have high self-esteem." This is the nub-style crux. It's noticeable that depressed people often have something wrong with their coupons or look odd in other ways, such as having a full head of hair. I am one such myself but, contrary to the analysis above, I find self-help books invaluable. It's not the content. That's all tripe. But the act of reading such tripe is reassuring. It holds out hope. Even a leading pessimist like me cannot resist hope. You never know when, among the acres of bilge, you might unearth an ancient trinket of sense. I've never found one yet, but it's the travelling rather than arriving that counts.

While reading self-help books, at least you're not being helplessly maudlin. I've a magnificent collection – covering shyness, low self-esteem, no confidence, facial issues, unhappiness, pointlessness, the whole gamut of misery – and sometimes I look at it and say: "I wonder if I should organise them alphabetically by author or by failing?"

None has ever made a difference to my life or, if they did, it was only for the duration of reading the book. It's like yoga or pilates: the exercises only do any good in class and for half an hour afterwards. Presently, you just stoop and slouch again, in the way that nature has taught you.

Recently, I purchased a book that promised to change my life. I was 30 pages in before I realised I'd read it already. It had changed diddly. But it was the reading that had counted, not the succeeding. This therapeutic reading is enhanced, too, if you highlight important passages. You should aim to go back through these at the end of the book. But, in practice, you don't have to bother. Simply, go on Amazon, type in your neurosis, and order another barrowload of books about it. Hoorah!

By George, culture clubs could be fun

I'M NOT your man for clubbing. I used to go on to them when the pubs closed at 10 o'clock so that I could get more drink. Most people seemed there for the same purpose. Occasionally, one saw people dancing, but most men gave that a wide berth and just stood at the bar hawking into spittoons or making sparks on the floor with our spinning spurs.

The whole concept of the club, as I understand it, later changed, with massive crowds of trendy baldies bouncing up and down en masse to an industrial beat. Or is that a rave? I don't want to sound more ignorant than I already am – and I haven't even started yet – and I don't particularly like being a middle-aged fogey. But I've become one by default. Most of us do. You just stop noticing things – new bands, trends and so forth. The next thing is you're oot the loop, ken?

I don't care. I'd rather watch Last of the Summer Wine than go to a club. I'll just read that last sentence back. Ruddy heck, I'd no idea I'd let things slide so far. I was intrigued, therefore, to read about new clubs, described as "experimental havens for the avant-garde". Experimental? Havens? Avant-garde? These words push my buttons and make glorious raspberry noises. Here, you'll find poetry readings, theatre, and talks about architecture and gardening. Laudably, such activities are difficult to dance to. However, it seems, that some people still try. And the above activities appear mere interludes between the gyrations of the jitterjumping set. Such a shame. But the new "culture clubs" are at least a start. Take away the dancing and the music, and clubbing could actually become quite enjoyable.