David's Inferno (26 page)

You wait for an opening—maybe a few good hours here or there—so you can do something together that resembles fun as you formerly knew it. But you still feel like you're walking on eggshells—one innocuous comment and he'll start talking in monosyllables again … if he talks at all.

Depending on how well you know him, you can ignore his behavior (or lack thereof), shrug it off, share ironic jokes about it, or get really worried and upset. Regardless, you know the deal. He
knows the deal. And there ain't a helluva lot either of you can do.

Maybe he'll still work out with you. Show some faint interest in business. Plan a road trip that you both know he won't take. (Or, worse, will.) Maybe go for a walk. Watch a game. If you're lucky, he might even go out for a drink. Or briefly engage in relatively normal conversation, before looking skittishly around and saying he has to go somewhere. Anywhere.

Every time you see him, you take a quick look … to see if maybe Dave is Dave again. Once in a while you see hopeful signs: he actually laughs wholeheartedly; his wit doesn't seem slashed in half. But it doesn't last. The center does not hold. You should know, however, that even if we look down, turn away, change the subject, and/or try to act like this moment does not exist, we appreciate how hard it is for you. We don't enjoy casting a shadow over your life. Far better that you keep enjoying your own good humor, rather than letting us drag you down. Just being able to let down our guard is helpful.

As I began to recover, the first thing I wanted to do was reach out … call people … interact. So be patient. If you can. We've gone on a long voyage. But we'll be back.

Probably the best thing you can do is acknowledge/accept deeply depressed people as the not-exactly-happy-go-lucky people we/they are; and remain as happy and loving as you possibly can. I better stop before I appear too New Age, but, if we don't look too ornery, you can even give us a hug.

It's really hard to see inside the world of a friend who's going through a breakdown.

After a visit in the winter of 2006, I asked a friend to write what it was like:

It's even harder to know what to say. But people found ways. Often I'd get little notes from friends … just letting me know they were there … and so was I.

By the way, being depressed does not necessarily mean you've lost your sense of humor. One day, I got an email from one of the funniest people on the planet who's known Wendy as long as me, and loves her almost as much. He wrote:

I was reluctant to talk about it. The very question: “How are you doing today?” made me claustrophobic. One of my best friends, however, did perfect the art of just glancing briefly and/or putting his hand lightly on my shoulder and asking, “How ya doing, buddy?” in a way that made it clear no answer was required, while acknowledging that if there happened to be anything he could do, he was more than willing.

I was also horrified by the notion that people would pray for me. I mean, I appreciated the thought, but it felt like an invasion of privacy. I didn't want the attention. That's just me. Prayer is probably really helpful. In fact, I'm happy to pray for anybody anytime. Just ask.

But the hardest question to bear was: “Have you tried …?” No matter how well-meaning, I'd experience the question as another person's opinion/expectation I'd have to add to the invisible Sisyphean load of indecision I was dealing with.

If you really, really believe something will help, consider taking the matter in your own hands: For example,

I did try to reach out sometimes … often in emails. To read them today gives new meaning to the phrase “mixed states.” One minute I'd be writing an email about how I was definitely getting better, even though less than a half hour before, I'd had a blanket over my head and having the dry heaves, and sobbing. Later that day, I'd be writing another one that described the experience in excruciatingly objective detail.

Why did I write so differently to different people? To control the message, of course, Because, ironically, the more out of control you feel, the more urgency you feel to control how people relate to you. While it was helpful to have a good excuse for missing a meeting, dinner, party, or other seemingly intimidating social situation, I didn't want it to be
so
good I'd never be invited to another one. I did have a few “special correspondents.” People I knew would read my words with a certain kind of understanding that—through some strange alchemy of communication—would make me feel better just by writing.

Realizing it wasn't a great idea for me to be home alone every day that Wendy was working, I made arrangements with an artist we know to work in her studio on Wednesdays.

Our friend is so guileless you wish there was a better word for it. Finding an iota of deception or manipulativeness in her is harder than catching a glimpse of the famously rare Vermont catamount.

Being at her studio finessed two big issues for me of being around people: space versus confinement and wanting to be alone versus needing to be around people.

It was a big studio … maybe 30 feet × 30 feet. A little kitchenette to make tea. A fire escape to walk out on. She spent almost all of
her time painting flowers or a model, while I pushed around parts of a novel. Every once in a while, she'd come over and sit down to share the table and tea and talk with me. While she was well aware of my condition—and had gone through something similar 20 years before—she wouldn't have considered wanting it to be otherwise. Rather, I could feel her looking at it, engaged, curious, from different perspectives, as she would the things she painted. No shadows, no light. No light, no shadows.

I tried to “pay my way” by consulting with her on business, in particular her approach to time management. She really wanted to understand time. It was a concept that baffled her. For example, if she needed to have 10 paintings ready for a show in 20 weeks, I would try to explain that meant she had to do about two paintings each week. She was fascinated by the idea—she'd even laugh and tell me how great I was at “figuring stuff like that out.” She just didn't really grasp what it had to do with her—which she demonstrated every time another of her self-imposed deadlines faded into history.

I felt safe there. I felt I had more to offer than just my pain. Occasionally, I think I was even pretty good company. My depression was still the elephant in the studio. But its feelings about the moment were no more important than those of the other wild things running around in my head, let alone the flowers she was painting.

Another long-term friend, after realizing just how bad I was, started coming over every Tuesday evening. He kept his own bottle of cognac at our house for the occasion, and on arriving, would pour himself a healthy shot. Emboldened, I might counter with a thimble of Jameson's. Then he'd ask me questions about what it was like. A lot of questions. Having spent years exploring drug- and alcohol-induced mental anguish—in himself and others—he was genuinely interested. He had no agenda. In fact, he admitted he kind of liked me better this way. Being able to talk about it freely in an almost clinical way helped give me a little separation from it. I looked forward to his visits.
Then there was my partner in business and crime (once or twice literally)—whose family is as close as you could be to ours without the DNA. My experience was particularly hard for him because we worked together several days a week and talked almost every day. My behavior unsettled the very rhythm of his life. We had spent many years honing our own personal, ever-evolving, often-scathing comedy routine in which no fools, including ourselves, were ever suffered. It had always been the way we “processed” the bewildering behavior of other humans. Now it was the way we managed to find ways to incorporate even my most abject states into our lovingly biting verbal slingshots.