When Your Friend is Depressed
This past year I discovered the writings of Parker Palmer, an octogenarian Quaker who has an impressive line-up of little books behind him. I say “little” not because they are the work of simpleton, but because they are the work of someone who, in the Quaker tradition, knows sometimes it is better to be silent than to speak. A better word for them may be brief.
The other night, after we blew out the Advent candles and let the fire burn down to its coals, Nate lay in bed with his poetry journal (in which he scribes and scribbles and crosses out and copies whatever poem he is working on) and I lay in bed rereading this selection from Let Your Life Speak. I read it weeks ago but it was still on my mind and today I thought I’d share it with you.
"It is odd that some of my most vivid memories of depression involve the people who came to look in on me, since in the middle of the experience I was barely able to notice who was or was not there. Depression is the ultimate state of disconnection—it deprives one of the relatedness that is the lifeline of every living being.
I do not like to speak ungratefully of my visitors. They all meant well, and they were among the few who did not avoid me altogether. But despite their good intentions, most of them acted like Job’s comforters—the friends who came to Job in his misery and offered “sympathy” that led him deeper into his despair.
Some visitors, in an effort to cheer me up, would say, “It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you go out and soak up some sunshine and look at the flowers? Surely that’ll make you feel better?”
But that advice only made me more depressed. Intellectually, I knew that the day was beautiful, but I was unable to experience that beauty through my senses, to feel it in my body. Depression is the ultimate state of disconnection, not just between people but between one’s mind and one’s feelings. To be reminded of that disconnection only deepened my despair.
Other people came to me and said, “But you’re such a good person, Parker. You teach and write so well, and you’ve helped so many people. Try to remember all the good you’ve done, and surely you’ll feel better.”
That advice, too, left me more depressed, for it plunged me into the immense gap between my “good” persona and the “bad” person I then believed myself to be. When I heard those words, I thought, “One more person has been defrauded, has seen my image rather than my reality—and if people ever saw the real me, they would reject me in a flash.” Depression is the ultimate state of disconnection, not only between people, and between the mind and hear, but between one’s self-image and public mask.
Then there were the visitors who began by saying, “I know exactly how you feel. . .” Whatever comfort or counsel these people may have intended to speak, I heard nothing beyond their opening words, because I knew they were peddling a falsehood: no one can fully experience another person’s mystery. Paradoxically, it was my friends’ empathetic attempt to identify with me that made me feel even more isolated, because it was overidentification. Disconnection may be hell, but it is better than false connection.
Having not only been “comforted” by friends but having tried to comfort others in the same way, I think I understand what the syndrome is about: avoidance and denial. One of the hardest things we must do sometimes is to be present to another person’s pain without trying to “fix” it, to simply stand respectfully at the edge of that person’s mystery and misery. Standing there we feel useless and powerless, which is exactly how a depressed person feels—and our unconscious need as Job’s comforters is to reassure ourselves that we are not like the sad soul before us.
In an effort to avoid those feelings, I give advice which sets me, not you, free. If you take my advice, you may get well—and if you don't get well, I did the best I could. If you fail to take my advice, there is nothing more I can do. Either way, I get relief by distancing myself from you guilt free.
Blessedly, there were several people, family and friends, who had the courage to stand with me in a simply and healing way. One of them was a friend named Bill who, having asked my permission to do so, stopped by my home every afternoon, sat me down in a chair, knelt in front of me, removed my socks and shoes, and for half an hour simply massaged my feet. He found the one place in my body where I could still experience feeling—and feel somewhat reconnected to the human race.
Bill rarely spoke a word. When he did, he never gave advice but simply mirrored my condition. He would say, “I can sense your struggle today,” or “It feels like you are getting stronger.” I could not always respond, but his words were deeply helpful: they reassured me that I could still be seen by someone—life-giving knowledge in the midst of an experience that makes one feel annihilated and invisible. It is impossible to put into words what my friend’s ministry meant to me. Perhaps it is enough to say that I now have deep appreciation for the biblical stories of Jesus and the washing of the feet.”
Palmer goes on, but in the spirit of Quakerism I’ll stop there, and you can continue reading in your own copy of the book. I hope you read this far at least, though, I know it was long. I was so comforted by these few pages, not only because I identified with his statements on disconnection and depression, but because for me too, it is being touched by another human in a helpful and whole way that brings me out of my stupor. I confess, I wrote Handle With Care because of this very realization in my own life: I am almost constantly in a state of disconnection until I am touched by another. It grounds me. It brings me back to this terra. It stabilizes my thoughts. Perhaps that isn’t true for you, maybe none of these words are, but they’re probably true for someone in your life. God, give us eyes to see and hands to touch.
* Please note that although Palmer doesn’t mention it in this excerpt, in other places in the book he does mention that he took medication for his depression, as have I. I just want to be clear that sometimes even touch does not fix what needs to be fixed. There is no shame in needing medication.
