couldn’t afford, and would very often end with us watching breakfast TV on my old Hitachi, which required constant manoeuvring of the aerial to see the picture.
Then a year later we had fun playing grown-ups, buying The River Café Cookbook and holding dinner parties at which we would serve up panzanella salads and expensive wines in our damp-infested student flat.
Please do not think this was a perfect relationship. It wasn’t. It still isn’t. The time we spent living in Ibiza, particularly, now seems to be one long argument.
Just listen to this:
‘Matt, wake up.’
‘What?’
‘Wake up. It’s half-nine.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve got to be at the office at ten. It’s a forty-five-minute drive.’
‘So, no one will know. It’s Ibiza.’
‘You’re being selfish.’
‘I’m being tired.’
‘You’re hungover. You were drinking vodka lemon all night.’
‘Sorry for having a good time. You should try it.’
‘Fuck off. I’m getting in the car.’
‘What? You can’t leave me in the villa all day. I’ll be stranded in the middle of nowhere. There’s no food. Just wait ten minutes!’
‘I’m going. I’m just so fed up with you.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re the one who wants to be here. My job is what keeps us here. It’s why we’re in this villa.’
‘You work six days a week. Twelve hours a day. They’re exploiting you. They’re still out clubbing. And no one’s in the office till after twelve. They value you because youare a maniac. You bend over backwards for them and treat me like crap.’
‘Bye, Matt.’
‘Oh fuck off, you’re not really going, are you?’
‘You selfish cunt.’
‘Okay, I’m getting ready . . . fuck .’
But the arguments were surface stuff. If you go deep enough under a tidal wave the water is still. That is what we were like. In a way we argued because we knew it would have no fundamental impact. When you can be yourself around someone, you project your dissatisfied self outwards. And in Ibiza, I was that. I was not happy. And part of my personality was this: when I was unhappy, I tried to drown myself in pleasure.
I was – to use the most therapy of terms – in denial. I was denying my unhappiness, even as I was being a tetchy, hungover boyfriend.
There was never a single moment, though, where I would have said – or felt – that I didn’t love her. I loved her totally. Friendship-love and love-love. Philia and eros . I always had done. Though, of the two, that deep and total friendship-love turns out to be the most important. When the depression hit, Andrea was there for me.She’d be kind to me and cross with me in all the right ways.
She was someone I could talk to, someone I could say anything to. Being with her was basically being with an outer version of myself.
The force and fury she’d once only displayed in arguments she now used to steer me better. She accompanied me on trips to doctors. She encouraged me to ring the right helplines. She got us to move into our own place. She encouraged me to read, to write. She earned us money. She gave us time. She handled all the organisational side of my life, the stuff you need to do to tick over.
She filled in the blanks that worry and darkness had left in its wake. She was my mind-double. My life-sitter. My literal other half when half of me had gone. She covered for me, waiting patiently like a war wife, during my absence from myself.
How to be there for someone with depression or anxiety
1.
Know that you are needed, and appreciated, even if it seems you are not.
2.
Listen.
3.
Never say ‘pull yourself together’ or ‘cheer up’ unless you’re also going to provide detailed, foolproof instructions. (Tough love doesn’t work. Turns out that just good old ‘love’ is enough.)
4.
Appreciate that it is an illness. Things will be said that aren’t meant.
5.
Educate yourself. Understand, above all, that what might seem easy to you – going to a shop, for
Then a year later we had fun playing grown-ups, buying The River Café Cookbook and holding dinner parties at which we would serve up panzanella salads and expensive wines in our damp-infested student flat.
Please do not think this was a perfect relationship. It wasn’t. It still isn’t. The time we spent living in Ibiza, particularly, now seems to be one long argument.
Just listen to this:
‘Matt, wake up.’
‘What?’
‘Wake up. It’s half-nine.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve got to be at the office at ten. It’s a forty-five-minute drive.’
‘So, no one will know. It’s Ibiza.’
‘You’re being selfish.’
‘I’m being tired.’
‘You’re hungover. You were drinking vodka lemon all night.’
‘Sorry for having a good time. You should try it.’
‘Fuck off. I’m getting in the car.’
‘What? You can’t leave me in the villa all day. I’ll be stranded in the middle of nowhere. There’s no food. Just wait ten minutes!’
‘I’m going. I’m just so fed up with you.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re the one who wants to be here. My job is what keeps us here. It’s why we’re in this villa.’
‘You work six days a week. Twelve hours a day. They’re exploiting you. They’re still out clubbing. And no one’s in the office till after twelve. They value you because youare a maniac. You bend over backwards for them and treat me like crap.’
‘Bye, Matt.’
‘Oh fuck off, you’re not really going, are you?’
‘You selfish cunt.’
‘Okay, I’m getting ready . . . fuck .’
But the arguments were surface stuff. If you go deep enough under a tidal wave the water is still. That is what we were like. In a way we argued because we knew it would have no fundamental impact. When you can be yourself around someone, you project your dissatisfied self outwards. And in Ibiza, I was that. I was not happy. And part of my personality was this: when I was unhappy, I tried to drown myself in pleasure.
I was – to use the most therapy of terms – in denial. I was denying my unhappiness, even as I was being a tetchy, hungover boyfriend.
There was never a single moment, though, where I would have said – or felt – that I didn’t love her. I loved her totally. Friendship-love and love-love. Philia and eros . I always had done. Though, of the two, that deep and total friendship-love turns out to be the most important. When the depression hit, Andrea was there for me.She’d be kind to me and cross with me in all the right ways.
She was someone I could talk to, someone I could say anything to. Being with her was basically being with an outer version of myself.
The force and fury she’d once only displayed in arguments she now used to steer me better. She accompanied me on trips to doctors. She encouraged me to ring the right helplines. She got us to move into our own place. She encouraged me to read, to write. She earned us money. She gave us time. She handled all the organisational side of my life, the stuff you need to do to tick over.
She filled in the blanks that worry and darkness had left in its wake. She was my mind-double. My life-sitter. My literal other half when half of me had gone. She covered for me, waiting patiently like a war wife, during my absence from myself.
How to be there for someone with depression or anxiety
1.
Know that you are needed, and appreciated, even if it seems you are not.
2.
Listen.
3.
Never say ‘pull yourself together’ or ‘cheer up’ unless you’re also going to provide detailed, foolproof instructions. (Tough love doesn’t work. Turns out that just good old ‘love’ is enough.)
4.
Appreciate that it is an illness. Things will be said that aren’t meant.
5.
Educate yourself. Understand, above all, that what might seem easy to you – going to a shop, for
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