Smiling on a Spreadsheet: Why Modern Mental Health Support Feels Like a System Update From Hell
From quinoa-wrapped solutions to apps that shout “You’re amazing!” while you sob into cereal, Britain’s approach to depression is as helpful as a Bluetooth toaster in a power cut.
Let me explain something. Depression, that grey, creeping fog that makes you feel like you’ve been wrapped in clingfilm and forgotten at the back of life’s fridge; is bad enough. But what makes it worse, monumentally worse, is trying to navigate your way through modern society’s idea of “support”. It’s like being offered a gluten-free crouton in the middle of a famine.
These days, depression is being treated with the same disorganised enthusiasm as an NHS nurse trying to serve three wards, fix a printer and unclog a loo; all while being paid in Jaffa Cakes and “meaningful thanks”. The system is knackered. The forms are endless. The waiting lists are longer than the queue for a Greggs sausage roll during a rail strike. You finally summon the courage to admit you’re not OK, only to be handed a leaflet titled “Five Breathing Techniques for Mild Sadness”. Marvellous.
Meanwhile, the government has decided it might be time to act. Not swiftly, obviously. More like a trifle deciding to collapse under its own weight. We’re told there’s a “joined-up approach” coming… which as anyone who’s ever tried to contact the right NHS department will tell you, is like describing spaghetti as “neatly aligned”.
Mental health support in Britain is now served like a hospital breakfast… mostly cold, frequently beige and usually missing the one thing that might actually help. People are offered CBT sessions in six months, online quizzes designed by someone who’s clearly never been sad a day in their life; and advice apps that send push notifications like, “Drink water!” or “Try smiling!” Right. That should do it. Next up, curing cancer with lukewarm custard.
Even the food angle is becoming depressing. Once upon a time, a Bacon & Egg McMuffin could lift the soul. Now? Now it comes with a side of guilt, heartburn; and a warning that it will clog your colon faster than a bureaucrat can clog a funding request. Sausages cause cancer. Bread’s too processed. Cheese is a coronary in cube form. Your only safe option is a salad made of kale, air and something called “activated chickpeas”, which taste like someone dared a lentil to have a personality.
Of course when you’re down, food matters. It’s comfort. It’s control. But try finding solace in a world where everything delicious is either banned, overpriced, or made of tofu. Want cake? That’ll be 800 calories and a lecture from a nutritionist who looks like she’s never made it past the prune aisle. Fancy a pint? Sorry, alcohol is a depressant. So is caffeine. So is everything you like. Joy itself, apparently is clinically discouraged.
It doesn’t help that bureaucracy is baked into every bite. If NHS nurses ran cafes, they’d be brilliant. Quick, efficient, a bit sarcastic. But they don’t. Instead, you get a clinical commissioning group that takes eighteen weeks to approve a funding request for mental health support, then forgets to send the email. Meanwhile, the patient? They’re left marinating in their own anxiety, like a sad vegetarian lasagne left out in the rain.
Worse still, the software boys have entered the scene. They’ve decided the solution to depression isn’t therapy, or connection, or not being treated like a spreadsheet. No, it’s an app. An app with a stupid name like MoodMoo or HappiFi. One that pings every morning to say, “You’re amazing!” even though you’ve spent the last hour crying into your cereal. Which is now gluten-free, sugar-free and taste-free, thanks to some government nutritional initiative probably dreamed up during a quinoa conference.
Here’s a thought. Instead of launching another “strategy”, why don’t we fund some actual humans to do some actual listening? Let nurses and therapists do what they’re good at without having to tick seventeen boxes labelled “KPIs” and “wellbeing outcome matrices”. Give people warmth, connection, decent food and fewer bloody acronyms.
Depression is real. It’s complicated. It’s not fixed by cutting ham from school menus or replacing a croissant with a quinoa wrap. It’s fixed by looking after people. Like nurses do. Day in, day out, with fewer resources than your average Bake Off contestant.
So if you’re feeling flat, don’t blame yourself. Blame the system that turned care into a flowchart and comfort into a compliance risk. Then go and eat the damn chocolate croissant. Even if it’s bad. It’s still better than an app.
###
Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
----