Depression and the power of stories
Rhik Samadder’s account of his mental health is both devastating and blackly funny, writes Gwen Smith
Depression is both talked about and ignored. In this era of openness around mental health, on a conceptual level it is wedged in the public discourse. At the same time, the unvarnished everyday experience of illness largely goes unheard. It is this underexplored individual terrain that journalist Rhik Samadder ploughs, with a blend of heartbreaking candour and hilarity.
When the depression he has struggled with for most of his life begins to lift during a 30th birthday trip with his mum, he decides to explore where it came from and how he eventually managed to deal with
it. Each chapter charts his trajectory towards coping with a different aspect of life, from losing loved ones to work and sex.
Although few of these accounts are a picnic, the most devastating arrives in the chapter on memory. For Samadder, there is a secret that “lies rotting like the body of a bird in the back room of a house.” The precise nature of this secret is best detailed by Samadder himself. But in any case, he suspects it is the root of his poor memory: in the past he has been unable to recall seemingly unforgettable episodes such as a fortnight’s holiday in New York. With astonishing bravery and compassion, he confronts the past head on – he wants to “feel it fully, cleanly, and then be done with it” – and discovers that doing so heralds the return of more mundane recollections, too.
The memoir moves on to cover selfharm, eating disorders and suicidal thoughts, but I Never Said I Loved You could practically be a set text to teach literature students about the thin line between tragedy and comedy. It roars with humour, thanks to Samadder’s flair for bathos (“Depression had pushed me to self-harm, suicidal ideation and drama school”) and spiky self-awareness – he brands his teenage rejection of sex “a review of a restaurant at which I couldn’t get a table.” Then there are the deranged auditions he endured as an actor; one required him to “ventriloquise a clam the size of your head … in the service of an unorthodox reading of [Walt Whitman’s] Leaves of Grass.”
The narrative zig-zags between various stages of Samadder’s life, and at times it is tricky to remain orientated. But while the chronology may lack clarity, the message is crystal-clear: connecting with others is a balm. Samadder acknowledges that his cocktail of coping techniques – therapy and various positive habits – won’t necessarily work for others. But sharing stories is at least a reminder that we’re not alone. n