David's Inferno (28 page)

Emily was beyond the age at which I was concerned about my depression causing her irreparable subconscious psychological
harm. Still, there was no reason to flaunt it. Whenever we talked or wrote, I did my best to tell her that I was feeling better and that the latest medication (vitamins, acupuncturist, or homeopath) seemed to be helping—i.e., don't worry about dad.

I found a certain distinct comfort in being with her. We could both intentionally act as if things were relatively normal, without pretending that, in many ways, they weren't. It was as if we had a tacit agreement that we'd give it our best shot for as long as we were together. Since our love for and acceptance of each other was, and is, unconditional, if my sadness or agitation won out—if I got weepy or “needed to get going”—well, we'd just deal with it. In the meantime, I'd ask her about what was going on in her life the way I always had. And, in truth, I'd be genuinely interested in her responses. It got me out of my skin and made me feel comfortable in it at the same time.

Still, there was only so much either of us could do. I remember one specific evening that she called and, while she and Wendy talked, I prepared myself with some positive news about something I'd written or someone I'd seen or even a funny story about her grandmother. But, as soon as I picked up the phone and heard her voice, I choked up. Big time.

At that moment, it didn't matter that she was 25. It didn't matter that I was 55. It didn't matter how much we loved each other. I was so emotionally entangled I couldn't get out of my own way long enough to say hello … or even goodnight … to my own daughter.

As much as I hurt, that hurt even more. DNA runs deep.

Still, fundamentally, one of the “gifts” of a psychological firestorm is how it affects your relationships. It could be as simple as your favorite barista remembering your name and smiling a little brighter when you walk in; or the people at work realizing that deadlines aren't as stressful as they used to be; or friends sensing that you're more open, curious, and (especially in my case) way less critical.

And, as for the people closest to you, it can transform your relationships in ways that neither of you could have ever imagined.

D
SM A
XIS
4: “Severe; wearing on marriage.” (Psychiatrist's notes, March 2007.)

Living with a depressive can be brutal. Just brutal. Their emotions can suck your mildest enthusiasm into a black hole deep enough to give Dale Carnegie pause.

Often, Wendy had no choice but to get out of harm's way. Going to work was a lot easier than being with me. Having dinner alone with friends was a whole lot more fun than dragging me along—even though the specter of my absence could cast more of a pall than my just showing up and making the best of it.

Even the well-meaning, “How was he when you left? How's he doing today? This week?” could get tired after a while.

And, while I'm sure she was a little concerned that day I loaded my VW van with clothes, notebooks, road bike, maps, and madness, and drove off to parts unknown, I'm sure part of her gave a little sigh of relief.

Fortunately—at least in terms of her ability to understand and hang in there—she'd been down similar paths. In the early 1990s she began to see that many seemingly disparate aspects of her life
fit into an overall pattern of serious depression. As she wrote at the time:

Like me, she had found ways to self-medicate for many years. And also, like me, she found those techniques increasingly ineffective. After several grueling tries of various medications, she found one that worked with minor adjustments for many years.

That experience helped her keep her own sanity while watching mine crack; helped her endure the ups and downs, tentative hopes and heart-breaking disappointments of the briefest respites and most promising cures; helped her to continue to have faith that it would pass.

What choice did she have? Just as I couldn't imagine either committing suicide or living the rest of my life like this; she never imagined either getting a divorce or living the rest of her life like this.

“Do you want to …?” You don't realize how often you ask your partner that question until, for weeks and months, all you get back is a stream of desultories: “Okay.” “Sure.” “Fine.” “Whatever.” “I don't know.” “Maybe.” “Why don't you go by yourself?”

“You want to go for a walk?”

“Okay. I guess.”

“You want to go visit Emily?”

“Sure. You mean Saturday? I don't know. Well, you decide.”

“Maybe we should take a trip. Just get on a plane and go somewhere?”

“That sounds like fun.” Said in a tone of voice that says the opposite. Not to mention the deep undertone of claustrophobic anxiety that goes with the idea of getting on a plane.

“You want me to meet you downtown after work for dinner and then we'll go home and have wild sex?”

“Okay.” “Sure.” “Fine.” “Whatever.”

Sex is, of course, a topic of its own. Suffice it to say that, regardless of the physical ramifications of major depression, frequent sobbing isn't exactly a turn-on.

In all the cases above, you'd fake it if you could. But you can't. Despite the best of intentions … the strongest wish to make your partner happy … no matter what you do or say … or even how you perform, you feel impotent in every sense of the word, in every cell of your body. And there's no place to hide.

All I could do was try to keep the worst of my wailings for times when I was alone. All Wendy could do was walk beside me and intervene when things got totally out of hand. There were many of these little interventions, but one stands out.

It was one of those kaleidoscopic fall days in 2006. When the maple leaves are taking off and the oaks are hanging in there, showing intimations of what's to come. The kind that are particularly humiliating to someone who knows rapture when he sees it but is unable to go along for the ride. Wendy had gone off somewhere and I'd stayed behind to work outside. After purging as much dirt, sweat, and jagged edges as I could, I'd gone in to take a shower.

There was no hot water.

I'm pretty good at figuring things like this out: tracing wires and pipes and ductwork; silencing rattling refrigerators; investigating doors that don't latch; and even programming remote controls. My fixes are usually amateurish, but they work.

In this case, I couldn't find anything wrong. I grew frantic. I was paralyzed by the decision of whether to call an electrician, plumber, oil company, or psychic. Embarrassed by the thought of having to confess my helplessness to a professional. And, oh my God! It's Sunday! I can't call today! (You had to be there … in my head, that is.) The thought of Wendy coming home and learning there was no hot water was devastating. The more irrational I became, the more irrational I became, the more irrational I became. I finally just went out to my cabin and started screaming.

When I heard Wendy's car pull in, I walked to the house and greeted her, babbling about this apocalyptic systems failure that had befallen us. She went to get a sleeping bag, walked me out onto the grass, helped me get in it and lie down in the sun. A few minutes later she came out with a pillow and cup of tea and watched over me for a while. Then she went back in the house, called the oil company, and got the hot water fixed.

A friend once wrote me what it was like for him to live with his severely depressed wife:

It
is
really hard to determine what's the depression and what's everyday partner stuff. There's such a natural inclination to resist the diagnosis and/or try to just deal with it—remain silent, try not to react, redefine roles—that it can remain the elephant in the living room, dining room, kitchen, back porch, and bedroom. In some cases, for years.

In that sense, Wendy and I were “lucky.” Even though it had been years since we'd last spent any serious time with the elephant (and didn't exactly welcome him with open arms), denial wasn't really an issue. We became hyper-alert to every shift of his floppy ears and every restless nudge of his trunk.

He lumbered along with us on walks in the woods. He went for rides with us in the car, sat behind us at movies—eating popcorn
and peanuts, of course—and hovered in the background when we visited friends.

Even now, we don't let our guard down completely. We probably couldn't even if we wanted to because we've developed such a fine-tuned sense of each other's emotions. Which, in many ways, is a good thing. We don't have to tell each other when we feel a little off. We just say, “Don't worry. It's not chemical.” And hope we're right.

When one or both partners is a depressive, marriage can be a tenuous and often tentative prayer, a partnership that endures by sheer virtue of broken hearted determination and stubborn unwillingness to choose the alternative. And, undoubtedly, a host of other elements, from children and finances to karma, pride, faith, hope, and even a little fear of the unknown. As a similarly psychotic friend wrote me: “My spouse ought to get some award for patience and tolerance.”

There's a tendency to admire partnerships that survive the virulent extremes of depression. But any relationship that passes through this crucible is transformed. Whether the people stay together or not is their own private, intimate decision that nobody else is in a position to judge.

There are support groups for spouses and families, including the requisite
Depressed Anonymous
, a 12-step program “for men, women and children whose lives have been affected by a family member's depression. Members share hope, strength and experience in order to grow emotionally and spiritually.”

There are also plenty of online forums for people with severely depressed partners: including the
Bipolar Significant Others Bulletin Board
(isn't the adjective in the wrong place there?) and Mental Health Matters where they suggest you start by selecting a disorder, a phrase that sounds like a “Sophie's Choice” to me.

There are also many therapists for whom it's a specialty. While we never considered turning to them (perhaps because we had our own strong network of trusted friends and advisors), I'm sure they
can be extremely helpful. It's important to realize that the person you're living with
can't
just snap out of it. And, just as important, that the frustration, exhaustion, and hopelessness
you
feel is real, understandable, and forgivable. Because even if your partner is working with an experienced, sensitive psychiatrist whose treatment seems to be going in the right direction, the two of you still have to continually find ways to survive the ups and downs, tentative hopes and heart-breaking despairs of potential cures.

Unfortunately, unlike alcohol and drugs, partners of depressives don't even have the option of either getting an award or doing an “intervention.” They can't lock depression away or flush it down the toilet. They have to leave you or live with it. Ultimately, their only real cure is yours.