I used to joke that only men with depression were attracted to me. It was the only experience I’d had, every long-term boyfriend and even the short-term flings. I’d never dated anyone who hadn’t been on antidepressants, or spent time in a psychiatrist’s office. That dark, brooding, introspective type: It draws me in.
I guess having struggled with my own anxiety, and bouts of depression, I’ve always been able to empathize. Then there’s the carer aspect of my personality; I like to look after people, I like to try and fix situations, connect people to services that will help them. I’m studying to become a social worker.
I don’t want to compare my experience as a partner of someone with depression to the struggles of someone who is actually depressed. But years of loving people who could probably not love me back in the same way, it’s taught me coping techniques that I think could be helpful. I am just one of the many, many partners who’ve sat in silence with their loved one, watching them eat for the first time in two days because their brain has been a fog and their muscles hurt and their bed is the only safe space for them to hide in.