But the words I found myself speaking were not at all what I intended. It wasn’t uncommon for me to make an attempt at getting to know someone or to get into a personal issue with a friend. But I became very nervous at what I might say. When feeling more numb than despairing, I could often get out and talk to people, even at social gatherings. That only increased the likelihood that I might push myself over the edge. Eventually, the crisis passed, but it wasn’t the isolation that had helped me survive. The result was that I went more deeply into despair. I ruled out the possibility that anyone could break through the wall I’d put up around me. I believed I could survive only by cutting myself off from everyone, yet that only intensified the feeling of having nowhere to turn. Then there was the isolating drive of depression, the belief that I was in too much pain to face anyone – too lost in despair to move. I stopped myself from reaching out because I “knew” these friends wanted to have nothing to do with me. It’s so strange to imagine that this could have been such a common occurrence, but it was. I projected my own shame into their minds and then retreated before the dislike I was sure they felt. One habit of my own depressed thinking was to assume that everyone I met had the same negative and contemptuous view of me that I did of myself. That’s a language they haven’t learned and never want to know. And, of course, some friends are not in the habit of probing their own emotional lives and run from the idea of listening to someone else trying to go deeply into feelings. When I reached out for support, some friends were sympathetic but at a loss as to what they could do to help. Many may feel helpless in the face of a friend’s pain and despairing mood. Though I never heard any explanation from them, my wife and I believed they couldn’t face the risk of emotional involvement and possible loss.ĭepression adds another dimension. It was stunning to me that a few people I had known quite well simply disappeared from my life. I first found that out when I had cancer.
Many people refuse to talk about depression or other serious illnesses. Sometimes it wasn’t I who had an issue with reaching out but friends who had trouble opening themselves to listen.
I can’t say how true they might be for others. I’ve said a lot about the reasons behind that, especially in this post.) Here are some of the problems from my experience. (I’ll set aside the much worse problem of not talking to my wife. Thinking back over many years of living with depression, I can quickly find many reasons why I had such trouble finding a friend to talk to when I most needed one. When I feel these two at the same time – as I can if the depression is not too severe – the tension of these opposing forces makes it all the harder to find the help I need. Loneliness is a sadness at the loss of close relationships. I wrote an earlier post about the difference I experience between loneliness and depression. Lonely and depressed, I had often asked that same question, or at least felt the need to ask it. Isn’t it obvious? But I knew so well how much the question implied. Lately, I’ve come across a number of questions online by plainly anguished people, asking: Why do I have no friends, no life? The first time I saw one this blunt, I reacted almost defensively, laughing as I recalled an old film in which a man hires a private detective to find out why he has no friends.
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