Why cooking during depression feels almost impossible

Comedian, writer and food enthusiast Jennifer Wong has lived with depression for almost 20 years. Here's how her food enthusiasm loses its way when she's experiencing it.

I'm someone who loves making big pots of dal, wrapping platefuls of potstickers (dumplings) and having friends over to eat. Source: Getty Images

Inseparable from the act of cooking is the belief that the person you're cooking for deserves nourishment, love and care: someone is worth soaking rice for; someone is worth peeling vegetables for. 

When I'm in the middle of an episode of depression, cooking for myself is one of the things I find the hardest. Low energy makes it hard to move and to make good decisions about what and when to eat, which is why there've been many nights I've been in bed at midnight with a box of nuggets, licking sweet and sour sauce off my fingers. 

The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality, according to Andrew Solomon, author of The Noonday Demon: An Anatomy of Depression. Vitality is something I associate with cooking.

Being able to put all the ingredients on the kitchen bench means several things have happened.

The big things include having left home to go to the shops, which means having got out of bed and dressed, and the effortful act of walking. Little things include having decided which things to take out of your pantry.

Vitality is something I associate with cooking.

Depression warps my relationship with things like nourishment, love and care. The way I experience depression (it's different for everybody) is as a physical condition of weakness and being unwell, with a descant of negative thinking that wants to keep me unwell. 

When I move from nuggets at midnight to eating more healthily, the steps are small. I boil some water to cook linguine, drain it and spoon bottled pasta sauce and a can of tuna on top. I sprinkle some fried shallots on top and convince myself that's a vegetable.

Eventually, I do myself the favour of bringing greens back into my diet. I chop up some broccolini and put it in the same bowl where I've poured a can of chicken and corn soup. It goes into the microwave. 

From there, I graduate to congee cooked in the rice cooker with Chinese broccoli and some fish, which makes me feel so virtuous (a carb, some greens and a protein) and cosy, given its familiar taste of childhood.

After some time, I remember that as well as being someone with depression, I'm someone who loves making big pots of dal, wrapping platefuls of potstickers (dumplings) and having friends over to eat.

All the while, there are circuit breakers. My mum brings me Chinese soups and rice with pickled greens and pork. I eat some strips of raw yellow capsicum; its sweetness and bright colour convince me I'm having an interaction with the sun. A particularly good orange reminds me that my tastebuds are alive with pleasure.

After some time, I remember that as well as being someone with depression, I'm someone who loves making big pots of dal, wrapping platefuls of potstickers (dumplings) and having friends over to eat. I remember what it means to experience delight, and how food for me has always meant joy because food means family and friends. 

I meander to the shops, and once there, I am in a quiet reverie, marvelling at the fragrance of tomato stems and the pleasing purple and white stripy-ness of eggplants (labelled "eggplant stripes"). I buy some snow peas and eat them raw; their sweet green crunch rivals anything a french fry could deliver.

I'm not yet back to spending a Saturday or Sunday cooking and freezing food to make sure I'll eat well during the week. Sometimes I'll still just have a sandwich for dinner. But the difference now is that I try to eat a carbohydrate, some proteins and some greens three times a day, the way that I'd brush my teeth or have a shower, even if I don't feel like it.

It's still hard to convince myself sometimes that I deserve love, nourishment and care. After five years of living alone, the idea of soaking rice and peeling vegetables when it's just for me is yet to feel like a norm, and yet, I would happily spend an entire afternoon wrapping dumplings in anticipation of friends and family coming over that night to eat them.

Luckily, it's possible to have people over again these days, which means - with my renewed sense of vitality - I can cook for them (no microwaved soup, I promise!). And then have leftovers during the week. 

 

If you or someone you know is in need of assistance or support, contact Lifeline  13 11 14, Beyond Blue 1300 224 636 or Kids Helpline 1800 55 1800.

Follow the author here: Twitter @wojennifer, Facebook @jenniferwongcomedian, Instagram @jenniferwongcomedian. You can also check out Jennifer's fortnightly SBS Food column, 'The Mostest' right here.