Image by Samantha Casolari
As the tragic loss of Robin Williams begins to sink in, depression is - rightly - hitting the headlines.
The September issue of ELLE features a poignant memoir by our columnist, Lisa Reich, about the impact depression has had on her search for love.
You can read it in full below.
LOVE IN A TIME OF SADNESS
Could you always tell, then? That I had issues? Im on the phone to Dan From LA the now-married love of my life, who I speak to more often than his wife would like. He is my dating sounding board.
As someone whos been there, done that, as it were, his insights are useful, if often painful. Not at the beginning, no, says Dan. But by the third date, I knew there were problems. Because, you were so happy sometimes, then the next minute, so
the end of the world is nigh.
Exactly. And then youd disappear until the other Lisa was back again. As if I was only ever allowed to be with one of you.
And you still wanted to date me? Wow.
I loved you by then. I was waiting for you to explain what was going on in your head. You never did, and it got too tough.
Dan tells me the me I show to prospective lovers isnt really me, and it makes a relationship almost impossible. Because your depression is such a huge part of you. Dont slam the phone down, but the fact is, you cant love someone else till you can love yourself.
Did your life-coach wife teach you that? I snap. And slam the phone down.
If what he says is true, I may as well hang up my dating hat now. Because I do not, have not, and never will love myself. Do I like myself? Mostly. Admire? Sometimes, in the mirror. But love myself? No.
Thats your depression talking, my therapist tells me. I swallow down my distaste. Does she think theres truth in what Dan said? I already know how shell respond. What do you think? she asks. I dont know if any of my many therapists over 20 years, including this one, have ever taken my desire to find a partner seriously. The issue doesnt get dismissed, exactly, but I am always gently encouraged to think of yourself first. Last year, at a London Fashion Week party, I got talking to a couple. The perfect couple. Funny, witty, gorgeous, finished each others sentences. Where did you find him? I asked after he left us to go and charm the room. Hes amazing.
Hes not, she snapped. Hes a depressive. This is a good day. Some advice: if you meet a man and he tells you hes one of them, run. Run as far as you can. I am one of them, I admit. Well, Id tell a man thinking about going out with you the same, she said. Its not that you dont deserve love. But love has nothing to do with deserving it. Most millionaires dont deserve to be rich. She tells me she loves her partner and wouldnt swap him for the world. But if Id have known then what I know now? I wouldve walked. You dont voluntarily sign up for this. There are three of us: happy him, me, and unhappy him. As someone who has really tried the patience of some well-meaning men in my time, I understand her perfectly. While it makes me sad, even a little angry, I think: Yes, why would you want to date a depressed person, given the choice?
I call Dan, apologise, and ask him if he feels the same as London Fashion Week girl. He goes quiet, then tells me he thinks that objectively, theres only a small percentage who would choose a depressed partner over someone who doesnt have serious mental health issues. I hear his wife hiss, Harsh! in the background, and like her a little more. I dont hide my own depression, but nor do I advertise it. If the subject arises, Im honest and, seven times out of 10, thats the end of that, relationship-wise. The other three, youll ditch anyway, because you think theres something wrong with them for wanting to date you knowing what they now know, my sister tells me. Heres the main problem. We are a romantic society, which is really terrible for depressed people. Weve been sucked into believing the power of love can save anything and everybody. But it cant. Nothing can. Not even a daily 200mg of sertraline and years of therapy.
If Im having a very bad week, or month, I dont feel depressed per se: I feel nothing. Its not, for me, sobbing and rocking in the corner. Its the pure absence of feeling. My bones feel heavy, my flesh is like a pair of too-loose trousers that keep falling down, and someone keeps putting sacks of sand on my shoulders, making it hard to stand up straight. I cant sleep, but Im never truly awake. The only things that can penetrate the inertia are the gentle whines of my dogs asking to go out. If it wasnt for them, I wouldnt get up at all.
From my experience, if youre depressed, either you feel too much or you dont feel at all. And love, ultimately, is about feeling. During an episode of depression, your heart doesnt flutter, it doesnt leap. The butterflies suffocate and die. During these episodes, you still have an intellectual understanding of the love you have for your mother, sister, boyfriend. You just cant access it.
I come from a family of actors. They understand my depression, and have taught me how to fake a happy, balanced demeanour when all I want to do is drool into my pillow. To be fair, I think they meant this advice for when I was struggling at work, not trying desperately, but in vain, to keep hold of the man I love.
With Dan, there were times I couldnt keep my hands off him, when I was so full of feelings for him, they seemed to seep out of every pore. But then they would vanish altogether. One day, Id be connected to myself and therefore him, too; the next, I wouldnt feel connected to anything, for days on end. But Id go through the motions because I didnt want him to feel bad. All I managed to do was make us feel like strangers. He broke up with me kindly hed been offered a job in LA that he couldnt turn down. So he made the end about his job, not about me. I didnt hate him for it.
Nevertheless, I said: I could come with you? even though I had no intention of doing so. The way his face drained of colour made me giggle (when youre a depressive, you take your laughs where you can get them).Ive tried to date a fellow depressive, but two wrongs did not make a right. It was lovely being with someone who knew exactly how it worked, but we ultimately brought out the worst in each other. Big, horrible, screaming rows with both of us shouting it was my turn to be miserable, then tears and dents in the wall from things thrown across the room. My last relationship (which lasted three months merci, match.com) worked better, because he understood depression, even if he didnt suffer from it. His mother was bipolar, and he learned at a young age that he effectively had two mothers. The warm, loving one, and the brittle, papier-mâché version. An unwelcome stranger behind her face, he called the latter.
He could spot the signs in me, and would simply back off when he saw it coming. Hed leave me alone with my non feelings and get on with his own life, not worried hed done something wrong, or forcing me to talk about it. He wouldnt try to cheer me up, or arrange surprises, like Dan did. He wouldnt initiate sex, because sex with a woman who cant feel a thing is not erotic. People with depression often experience loss of desire and take longer to orgasm sex becomes a chore and a charade.
The two things in the small print I used to read first whenever I changed medications (which I have, often) were the parts that inevitably said the drug may make me feel suicidal (made me laugh I already did) and affect my libido (made me worry). But when youve been on medication as long as I have, stopping isnt an option (I once talked to the foremost expert on the subject, and even he told me to keep popping the pills. My body has been with them so long, taking them away would be like telling me to ditch oxygen).
I wish with Dan, and other men Ive loved, Id been honest about my illness, explaining upfront how it works (for me, anyway), instead of impersonating someone normal. Perhaps if Id told them sometimes Id be physically there but emotionally absent, and to please not freak out or take it personally, but just to wait for me, it might have worked. So next time, maybe, thats what Ill do. Maybe.
When, or if, I meet Mr Right, or maybe even Mr OK, I will explain to him that Im a slow burner. Ill tell him that Im like a birthday present that, instead of having one layer of gift wrap, has dozens. A bit frustrating, granted, but the fact that it takes longer to get to the gift makes it even more precious. And if he falls for that line, hell probably be perfect for me.
For help and information with depression, contact Mind on 0300 123 3393