When her partner was depressed, she wondered where he went. She saw someone sitting in front of her, wearing the skin of the person she loved, but the spark, the humor, the joy, the essence that made him him seemed to have gone away.
When her partner was depressed, she didn’t even notice it at first. She wondered if he was upset with her. Maybe it was something she did. Perhaps he was annoyed that she’d left her socks on the floor again. Or maybe it had nothing to do with her. He’d been telling her he was unhappy with his job… maybe he was just preoccupied with that.
When her partner was depressed, she reached for him and he didn’t reach back, or even lean slightly towards her to make her reach easier. She told him she loved him, and he didn’t respond in kind, didn’t even acknowledge that she’d spoken. She wondered if what he was silently thinking was, “How can I love you when I don’t even love myself?”
When her partner was depressed, it was like shouting into a canyon.
When her partner was depressed, she gave up pieces of herself. She’d pick the restaurant she thought he’d want. She’d see the movie she thought he’d like. Because maybe, maybe, maybe something would pull him out of this. Maybe that person would come back. She’d plan surprises and feel let down when he didn’t express joy and gratitude. She started to let go of herself, bit by tiny bit, and then woke up one day and realized she wasn’t even sure who she was anymore.
When her partner was depressed, she’d look for signs that it was getting better. They’d have a good day together, and she would think, “okay, this is good. We’re on the way back to normal. I can live with this.” When she found out it was just a day, an outing, a pleasant conversation, she’d have to start from scratch in her understanding of what his depression meant.
When her partner was depressed, she learned to walk on eggshells. She wondered, “will this trigger him? How about this?”
When her partner was depressed, she learned that depression robbed him of the emotional energy to consider her feelings. When his disease forced him to spend so much time looking inward, trying to understand why he felt the way he felt – or, more accurately, why he didn’t feel very much of anything anymore – he stopped looking outward, which meant he stopped considering her needs. She followed his lead and stopped considering her needs too.
When her partner was depressed, she saw articles pop up on social media about how to support a loved one who was depressed. She took the tips – she tried harder, she met him where he was, she provided comfort without judgment, she bit her tongue, she chose patience… but she also wondered, in the small part of her mind that still had the capacity to think about her own needs: “where are the articles about how someone can support me? I’m going through this too.”
When her partner was depressed, so depressed that he tried to kill himself, she did the hardest thing: she had him loaded into an ambulance and, subsequently, a hospital against his will. He got angry at her for taking away his power, for putting him in a place where he was probably not even going to get very much help. She heard his animosity, but at least she knew he was contained. At least she knew he was somewhere he couldn’t try again. And she was angry at herself, and he was angry at her, and she was angry at him for being angry at her, and for putting her in the position of having to make this decision. But she also felt a little bit relieved, a little bit hopeful, that maybe these ambulance people, these hospital people could find a way to help.
When her partner was depressed, after he got out of the hospital, it was all-consuming. Every day, every hour, every minute, she thought, “I hope he’s okay.” Her decisions were all colored by that aspiration: to help him be okay again. Sometimes she wondered if it was safe to leave him home alone. Sometimes she wondered if it was safe to leave him.
When her partner was depressed, she wondered if it would ever end, if he would ever come out of it. She knew that sometimes people do, and maybe her partner was one of them. And then maybe things would be better. They could have the relationship they used to have. She felt a lot of hope and looked forward to a time when something would work – medication or meditation or exercise or singing or therapy or a new job, or any number of other things. She looked forward to rebuilding a relationship where her attachment needs could be a priority because his needs were no longer a question of life or death. She thought that once things were better, she could initiate a conversation about how to prevent depression from taking over both their lives again in the future.
And she waited, hopefully, and every day was a little bit different. One day would be a little bit better, the next would be a little bit worse.
After a while, he asked her to leave him, told her that healing was not something he would be able to do with her in his life. And she looked at everything she’d given to the relationship and realized, devastated, that she had to walk away. And she worried, will he be okay? She grieved, both for the relationship she had just ended and for the person she had lost a long time ago, and also for the lost pieces of herself. And she took a deep breath. And she started to pick up the pieces and rebuild, beginning the project of figuring out who she was without him in her life.
Disclaimer: The above story is an allegory written to reflect the collective experiences of several people I have known in my personal and professional life who are coping with a partner’s Major Depressive Episode. It is not written about one particular client, friend, or family member.
I recognize that there are many different ways that people experience a loved one’s depression. The intent of this article is not to represent a universal experience, but rather to provide validation and understanding for those who have experiences similar to the ones described above.