Initially, I must confess, the gravity of Pete’s situation completely escaped me. Perhaps it’s my natural disposition to see the brighter side of things; where some might anticipate the worst, I often assume everything will resolve itself favorably. However, a significant part of my initial misunderstanding stemmed from a failure to recognize that depression had, in essence, created a different Pete. I held a firm image of who Pete was in my mind, and “depressed” simply wasn’t a descriptor I had ever associated with my friend.
Over the ensuing months, the stark reality of severe depression unfolded before me, revealing itself as an unimaginable abyss. It became painfully clear that those fortunate enough to have never navigated the depths of serious depression cannot grasp its true nature merely by comparing it to their own experiences of sadness. As philosophers Cecily Whiteley and Jonathan Birch eloquently put it, depression transcends mere sorrow; it is an altered state of consciousness that fundamentally distorts one’s perceptions of time, space, and even self.
The journalist Sally Brampton vividly captured this harrowing experience, describing depression as a landscape “that is cold and black and empty. It is more terrifying and more horrible than anywhere I have ever been, even in my nightmares.” Her words paint a chilling picture of the profound isolation and fear that depression instills.
Further illuminating the inner turmoil of depression, novelist William Styron, in his seminal work “Darkness Visible,” wrote with stark honesty about his own battles. He observed that “the madness of depression is, generally speaking, the antithesis of violence. It is a storm indeed, but a storm of murk. Soon evident are the slowed-down responses, near paralysis, psychic energy throttled back close to zero.” Styron continued, articulating the unbearable anguish: “I experienced a curious inner convulsion that I can describe only as despair beyond despair. It came out of the cold night; I did not think such anguish possible.” His powerful prose underscores the sheer incomprehensibility of depression for those on the outside. What Do You imagine such despair feels like? It’s a question that forces us to confront the limits of our own empathy.
During the height of the Covid pandemic, phone calls became our lifeline, connecting Pete and me. Initially, and with what I now recognize as misguided intentions, I attempted to offer advice, suggesting ways he might alleviate his depression. Recalling his deeply fulfilling experiences performing eye surgeries in Vietnam for those in need, I proposed he revisit that path. I suggested it, naively believing that reigniting that sense of purpose would be the key. I failed to grasp the fundamental truth: it wasn’t ideas or solutions Pete lacked; it was the very energy and desire to pursue them. It was only later that I encountered the insight that offering advice to someone struggling with depression can often be counterproductive, inadvertently communicating a profound lack of understanding. What do you think someone in that state truly needs? Perhaps less advice, and more profound, empathetic listening.
