Probably. I’ve gazed into the abyss and lived to tell the tale.
When I was 18 I was diagnosed with dysthymia (chronic low mood) AND major depressive disorder (chronic bouts of severe depression) stemming from PTSD. I also had various other anxiety disorder diagnoses in those years (GAD, agoraphobia, anxiety disorder NOS.) My family of origin is a nightmare of incomprehensible dysfunction. For a while there, I was a self-destructive, suicidal, heavily-medicated mess* who could barely crawl out of bed. There was a man, he chose to be with me–and he knew exactly what he was getting into. He never viewed it as a personal sacrifice.
*I never actually attempted suicide, but I came close enough to require hospitalization. And I ever, ever deliberately hurt another person.
It took years of effort, but I got better. I don’t mean my depression problems vanished forever, but I learned to deal. I am now a highly functioning individual and probably have a more healthy and realistic outlook than many people without mental health issues. I realize not everyone is willing or able to invest that much time, effort, and money into their own recovery. I realize not every depressed person is me and not every relationship is ours. But I notice a distinct inability for some people to acknowledge the part where *I *did some shit to make his life better.
I came into his life during a very painful time for him. It was our friendship that helped him through that difficult time, and he loved, respected and admired me from the very beginning. By the time we fell in love, we already knew one another inside and out, and he knew the road ahead was long, but he didn’t care. There were times he struggled with self-doubt, times he believed the world was caving in around him, times he experienced personal crisis and misery and fear, and despite all of my own struggles, I remained committed to and supportive of him. I stood by him through his shit just as much as he stood by me through mine. When we’re feeling especially mushy, he likes to talk about how much I changed things for him, how I gave him hope and made him believe that good can persevere in a world of sad things. I may never understand it completely, but he truly finds me inspirational.
When we got married, I was just at the beginning of my recovery – and in my wedding vows, I said, ‘‘Because you loved me at my very worst, I vow to give you my very best.’’ Well, one thing he taught me to accept is that my best is actually pretty awesome. If there’s one thing that has been made abundantly clear over the years, it’s that not everyone gets the love and respect from their spouse that is the default expectation in this household. If it’s not blatantly obvious by now, I am passionately devoted to this man and there isn’t a day goes by that he doubts that. I am a damned good wife, depression or not. I do not, as DianeG suggests, provide the emotional satisfaction equivalency of a puppy. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that even on my very worst day I still contribute more to the relationship than your average small dog.
I’m not suggesting everyone go run out and find a mentally ill person to love. I respect anyone’s need to have to draw a boundary somewhere–and I would draw boundaries of my own as well. I really did and thought some baffling things during the worst of my illness. I can’t tell you why I got caught up in that self-destructive cycle, because in retrospect it seems incredibly stupid. I can’t go back in time and eliminate every sleepless night my husband suffered on my behalf. When I think of what he went through those years, it kills me.
But that’s kind of what love is about. You take the good with the bad, trusting that the good is going to outweigh the bad. It’s a decision we made together that neither of us regrets. That’s the narrative I wish to contribute because it seems like that perspective is rather missing in this thread.