I’ve written earlier here about the risk of talking to friends when you need support - or just someone to listen. It’s risky because you may find that even good friends might turn away when it comes to depression. Worse than that, they might tell you to get a grip, or one of the other stock phrases that show they don’t have a clue.
But there’s another side to this. I’ve had several friends who really wanted to help. I don’t mean friends who say the wrong thing with the best of intentions but folks who care for me and offer support without trying to tell me what to do. They offer the affection and love I need.
When I was depressed, though, it was hard to accept their support. It was often a gift I didn’t know how to use or wouldn’t let myself take. I’d just throw it away - or return to sender.
The severe depression I lived with for so long isolated me from everyone - especially from my wife and closest friends who offered so much.
Disappearing
Like many with depression, I used to shut myself off, seeking out a place where I could be alone - my office, a room at home, or some other place where I could hide. The door was firmly closed, the phone unanswered, any means of communication through the internet turned off. I’d try to lose myself in work but couldn’t concentrate, sometimes dozing off. Or I might take long naps during the day.
If we had visitors, I managed to avoid them much of the time. When with them, I wasn’t present, could hardly take part in any conversation. If we were meant to go off on an excursion together, I’d have an excuse not to go.
Emotionally, I felt either too bleak or too numb to connect with anyone. So even when I was there in person, I wasn’t really there at all.
I tried to disappear and rarely gave anyone a chance to get close or offer any sort of support.
Losing Memory
That led to the strangest thing of all. Even if my wife or a close friend gave me a hug, told me how much they felt for me and offered any kind of help I might need, there were times when I literally couldn’t hear what they were saying. The words didn’t register in the slightest.
I suppose I might have heard and understood what they were saying at the time, but nothing could register in memory. Afterwards, it was as though I hadn’t even seen the person. The only way I later found out about that moment was if my wife happened to mention it. I’d be completely baffled - there wasn’t the slightest recollection.
Usually when I’m reminded of something, a memory will suddenly come back. But not from those depths of depression - zilch, not a glimmer.
The only thing I could compare it to is the split in awareness that I’ve experienced under an anesthetic in the early phase of a medical procedure or full-scale operation. The doctor and nurses needed to shut down pain but also be sure I could respond to their requests when they were getting me ready. As the drug took effect, I’d fall asleep, or I should say I’d lose awareness, just as if I were asleep.
