You Can’t Cure Your Partner’s Depression.
So stop trying to.
*This is by no means a ‘how-to guide’ to support a loved one with their mental health. This is a story about my experience. If you require support, speak to a professional.*
Like other family members, my wife had a history of mental health illness before we started dating six years ago. But in 2016, she struggled more than at any other time in her life. Watching your loved one at rock bottom is beyond heartbreaking.
Depression (and anxiety) hit her. Like a sniper’s bullet right between the eyes. She didn’t stand a chance.
I lived in London. She lived in Berlin. We met when I visited Berlin for a weekend, and we have been a couple ever since. We managed our long-distance relationship for 18 months before growing tired of shuttling across Europe on low budget flights.
She loved Berlin; she was happy in the free and liberating city. She had a job with management responsibilities, which she adored. She felt loved by a large group of loyal friends who were, in many respects, closer to her than parts of her family. She left all of that behind to be with me in London.
Relocating and starting a new life is tough. This is especially true in London, where it’s more hostile and exhausting than it is friendly. After the initial excitement of being together in a more ‘normal’ relationship, we slowly realised unsettling things. She had a tiny social circle. She struggled to get a job in her field and was struggling financially. I was working an obscene number of hours and out of the house for hours on end.
She spent most of her time at home. Alone.
Upon her UK arrival, she was keen to work. She is a talented designer and combines it perfectly with graft and worth ethic. With her experience, we were confident she would earn a position in London’s vast creative scene, despite the fierce competition. She enthusiastically applied for jobs, consistently aiming high to satisfy her fierce ambition. As the weeks and months rolled on, rejection after rejection crushed her confidence. A lack of experience working in London always went against her.
It doesn’t take hindsight to know these circumstances were tough. Depression (and anxiety) hit her. Like a sniper’s bullet right between the eyes. She didn’t stand a chance.
I could not shoot and kill this illness like a soldier at war; this was her gunfight. My job was to throw her ammunition because she needed the bullets, not me.
The UK’s National Health Service attributes many contributors to the onset of depression. These include:
- depression is “… more common in people who live in difficult social and economic circumstances”.
- “…your risk of becoming depressed is increased if you stop seeing your friends and family”.
- “If someone in your family has had depression in the past… it’s more likely that you’ll also develop it”.
- “Feelings of loneliness…can increase your risk of depression”.
In retrospect, it was almost predictable.
“I can help” was my initial reaction. “Of course I can. And I’m going to. I’m going to fix this, and she’s going to bounce back in no time”.
Wrong.
I tried a range of things to ‘help’ reduce the burden on her mind- or, more accurately, things I thought would help. “Let’s go for a walk. Let’s eat out. Don’t worry about the laundry, I will do it. Leave the dishes, I’ve got them. Shall I Google local therapists for you?”. She was (mostly) appreciative- but it didn’t have the desired effect I naively thought they would.
These acts are of merit, of course. They can cheer people up and make life easier. I mean, if someone offered to wash the dishes on my behalf, I would love them eternally. But she didn’t need to be ‘cheered up’. Washing the dishes doesn’t cure a medical need. It doesn’t address the issue — it’s like sticking a band-aid over a gunshot. You think it will help, but it’s effectively pointless.
After a few weeks of ‘helping’, I knew I wasn’t. But at least I was doing ‘something’. And doing ‘something’, whatever it was, made me feel better. Even if it was fruitless. In times of crisis, it seems we humans have a desire to complete actions for no other reason than to make us feel better about the situation we face. It’s the same psychology as those who panic bought toilet rolls before the coronavirus lockdown. As if it had some special ability to repel a super spreading virus.
We had no alternative than to seek medical help. We went together. The doctor was useful. He was sympathetic and spoke in a calming voice. A very different tone compared to when we required answers to other, low grade, medical queries in the past. After some discussion, he asked the question. The question that anyone needs to prepare for when they discuss depression with a doctor. “Have you thought about ending your life?”.
Next, we received an official letter stating that my wife was clinically depressed. We knew it. We had known it for some time. But a letter from the doctor provided an undeniable formality. Not surprisingly, the realisation was tough to digest, especially for my wife. I would sometimes come home to find her re-reading the letter to make its contents more palatable.
It was at this time I realised I was effectively useless in making my wife feel better. Her depression was now months old, and despite my efforts, the illness had a hold on her, which she couldn’t escape from. There was nothing in this world I could do to bring her out of depression.
Maybe you think that’s tough to contend with? In some ways, yes, it was. A feeling of uselessness is never welcome. But I also, rather unexpectedly, felt relief. Gone was the (foolish) pressure I had put on myself to ‘fix’ her. I could not shoot and kill this illness like a soldier at war. This was her gunfight. My job was to throw her ammunition because she needed the bullets, not me.
I had to resist the effects of her illness and preserve my own mental health.
So what did I do?
Well, I was there. I spent time with her. I comforted her. I was in close proximity. I listened when she discussed her feelings. I tried to do so actively, so she knew I was focused on her and nothing else. I asked questions to extend the conversation hoping to understand her mind to a greater degree. (And yeah, I still washed the dishes.)
For me, it was important to ensure her struggles did not affect my health. I tried hard to stay being me. I have never suffered from depression, and I would never attempt to talk for anyone that has, but I can’t imagine it helps to see those closest to you follow the same downward spiral you have suffered because of your own mental health. I assume it would only inspire emotions of guilt and self-blame.
I had to resist the effects of her illness and preserve my own mental health. Sometimes, I cancelled plans to stay with her during particularly bleak episodes, but when possible, I continued to; crack stupid jokes; exercise; keep in touch and see friends. That was the version of me she fell in love with. And I had to safeguard that at all costs.
Maybe it inspired positive thoughts in her head. “Well, he is fine still, so I just need to focus on my own recovery”. “When I get better, we are going to do all the fun things we used to do together”. I don’t know, but I thought it helped.
Sounds easy, right?
Wrong again.
It was an unbelievably tough time. It was challenging to cope. Exhausting and draining throughout- and that was just me. Imagine what my wife felt like! There were times we clung to survival with our fingernails. Don’t ever underestimate the effects of mental illness. It shows no mercy and causes suffering more than any of us, including I, can imagine.
Today, my wife’s mental health is much improved. It has been for some time now. Occasional relapses happen, but they are to a lesser degree than in 2016. She has taken preventative steps to maintain her mental health, with varying degrees of success. If it does get worse, like in 2016, we know we can survive it. It will take time, patience, and support, but it won’t be the end of either of us.
