This assignment will involve examining a popular-press account of psychopathology from one of the assigned readings on Blackboard and critiquing this account. To do this you will be asked to use the text, lectures, and an original empirical article that y
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February 28, 2010
Depression's Upside By JONAH LEHRER
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The Victorians had many names for depression, and Charles Darwin used them all. There were his "fits"
brought on by "excitements," "flurries" leading to an "uncomfortable palpitation of the heart" and "air
fatigues" that triggered his "head symptoms." In one particularly pitiful letter, written to a specialist in
"psychological medicine," he confessed to "extreme spasmodic daily and nightly flatulence" and "hysterical
crying" whenever Emma, his devoted wife, left him alone.
While there has been endless speculation about Darwin's mysterious ailment - his symptoms have been
attributed to everything from lactose intolerance to Chagas disease - Darwin himself was most troubled by
his recurring mental problems. His depression left him "not able to do anything one day out of three,"
choking on his "bitter mortification." He despaired of the weakness of mind that ran in his family. "The 'race
is for the strong,' " Darwin wrote. "I shall probably do little more but be content to admire the strides others
made in Science."
Darwin, of course, was wrong; his recurring fits didn't prevent him from succeeding in science. Instead, the
pain may actually have accelerated the pace of his research, allowing him to withdraw from the world and
concentrate entirely on his work. His letters are filled with references to the salvation of study, which allowed him to temporarily escape his gloomy moods. "Work is the only thing which makes life endurable to
me," Darwin wrote and later remarked that it was his "sole enjoyment in life."
For Darwin, depression was a clarifying force, focusing the mind on its most essential problems. In his
autobiography, he speculated on the purpose of such misery; his evolutionary theory was shadowed by his
own life story. "Pain or suffering of any kind," he wrote, "if long continued, causes depression and lessens
the power of action, yet it is well adapted to make a creature guard itself against any great or sudden evil."
And so sorrow was explained away, because pleasure was not enough. Sometimes, Darwin wrote, it is the
sadness that informs as it "leads an animal to pursue that course of action which is most beneficial." The
darkness was a kind of light.
The mystery of depression is not that it exists - the mind, like the flesh, is prone to malfunction. Instead,
the paradox of depression has long been its prevalence. While most mental illnesses are extremely rare -
schizophrenia, for example, is seen in less than 1 percent of the population - depression is everywhere, as
inescapable as the common cold. Every year, approximately 7 percent of us will be afflicted to some degree
by the awful mental state that William Styron described as a "gray drizzle of horror ... a storm of murk."
Obsessed with our pain, we will retreat from everything. We will stop eating, unless we start eating too much. Sex will lose its appeal; sleep will become a frustrating pursuit. We will always be tired, even though
we will do less and less. We will think a lot about death.
The persistence of this affliction - and the fact that it seemed to be heritable - posed a serious challenge to
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Darwin's new evolutionary theory. If depression was a disorder, then evolution had made a tragic mistake,
allowing an illness that impedes reproduction - it leads people to stop having sex and consider suicide - to
spread throughout the population. For some unknown reason, the modern human mind is tilted toward
sadness and, as we've now come to think, needs drugs to rescue itself.
The alternative, of course, is that depression has a secret purpose and our medical interventions are making
a bad situation even worse. Like a fever that helps the immune system fight off infection - increased body
temperature sends white blood cells into overdrive - depression might be an unpleasant yet adaptive
response to affliction. Maybe Darwin was right. We suffer - we suffer terribly- but we don't suffer in vain.
ANDY THOMSON IS a psychiatrist at the University of Virginia. He has a scruffy gray beard and steep
cheekbones. When Thomson talks, he tends to close his eyes, as if he needs to concentrate on what he's saying. But mostly what he does is listen: For the last 32 years, Thomson has been tending to his private
practice in Charlottesville. "I tend to get the real hard cases," Thomson told me recently. "A lot of the people
I see have already tried multiple treatments. They arrive without much hope." On one of the days I spent
with Thomson earlier this winter, he checked his phone constantly for e-mail updates. A patient of his on
"welfare watch" who was required to check in with him regularly had not done so, and Thomson was
worried. "I've never gotten used to treating patients in mental pain," he said. "Maybe it's because every story
is unique. You see one case of iron-deficiency anemia, you've seen them all. But the people who walk into
my office are all hurting for a different reason."
In the late 1990s, Thomson became interested in evolutionary psychology, which tries to explain the
features of the human mind in terms of natural selection. The starting premise of the field is that the brain
has a vast evolutionary history, and that this history shapes human nature. We are not a blank slate but a
byproduct of imperfect adaptations, stuck with a mind that was designed to meet the needs of Pleistocene hunter-gatherers on the African savanna. While the specifics of evolutionary psychology remain
controversial - it's never easy proving theories about the distant past - its underlying assumption is largely
accepted by mainstream scientists. There is no longer much debate over whether evolution sculptured the
fleshy machine inside our head. Instead, researchers have moved on to new questions like when and how
this sculpturing happened and which of our mental traits are adaptations and which are accidents.
In 2004, Thomson met Paul Andrews, an evolutionary psychologist at Virginia Commonwealth University,
who had long been interested in the depression paradox - why a disorder that's so costly is also so
common. Andrews has long dark brown hair and an aquiline nose. Before he begins to talk, he often writes
down an outline of his answer on scratch paper. "This is a very delicate subject," he says. "I don't want to say
something reckless."
Andrews and Thomson struck up an extended conversation on the evolutionary roots of depression. They
began by focusing on the thought process that defines the disorder, which is known as rumination. (The
verb is derived from the Latin word for "chewed over," which describes the act of digestion in cattle, in
which they swallow, regurgitate and then rechew their food.) In recent decades, psychiatry has come to see
rumination as a dangerous mental habit, because it leads people to fixate on their flaws and problems, thus
extending their negative moods. Consider "The Depressed Person," a short story by David Foster Wallace,
which chronicles a consciousness in the grip of the ruminative cycle. (Wallace struggled with severe
depression for years before committing suicide in 2008.) The story is a long lament, a portrait of a mind
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hating itself, filled with sentences like this: "What terms might be used to describe such a solipsistic,
self-consumed, bottomless emotional vacuum and sponge as she now appeared to herself to be?" The dark
thoughts of "The Depressed Person" soon grow tedious and trying, but that's precisely Wallace's point.
There is nothing profound about depressive rumination. There is just a recursive loop of woe.
The bleakness of this thought process helps explain why, according to the Yale psychologist Susan Nolen-
Hoeksema, people with "ruminative tendencies" are more likely to become depressed. They're also more
likely to become unnerved by stressful events: for instance, Nolen-Hoeksema found that residents of San
Francisco who self-identified as ruminators showed significantly more depressive symptoms after the 1989 Lorna Prieta earthquake. And then there are the cognitive deficits. Because rumination hijacks the stream of
consciousness - we become exquisitely attentive to our pain - numerous studies have found that
depressed subjects struggle to think about anything else, just like Wallace's character. The end result is poor
performance on tests for memory and executive function, especially when the task involves lots of
information. (These deficits disappear when test subjects are first distracted from their depression and thus better able to focus on the exercise.) Such research has reinforced the view that rumination is a useless kind
of pessimism, a perfect waste of mental energy.
That, at least, was the scientific consensus when Andrews and Thomson began exploring the depression
paradox. Their evolutionary perspective, however - they see the mind as a fine-tuned machine that is not
prone to pointless programming bugs - led them to wonder if rumination had a purpose. They started with
the observation that rumination was often a response to a specific psychological blow, like the death of a loved one or the loss of a job. (Darwin was plunged into a debilitating grief after his to-year-old daughter,
Annie, died following a bout of scarlet fever.) Although the D.S.M. manual, the diagnostic bible for
psychiatrists, does not take such stressors into account when diagnosing depressive disorder - the
exception is grief caused by bereavement, as long as the grief doesn't last longer than two months - it's
clear that the problems of everyday life play a huge role in causing mental illness. "Of course, rumination is
unpleasant," Andrews says. "But it's usually a response to something real, a real setback. It didn't seem right
that the brain would go haywire just when we need it most."
Imagine, for instance, a depression triggered by a bitter divorce. The ruminations might take the form of
regret ("I should have been a better spouse"), recurring counterfactuals ("What if I hadn't had my affair?")
and anxiety about the future ("How will the kids deal with it? Can I afford my alimony payments?"). While
such thoughts reinforce the depression - that's why therapists try to stop the ruminative cycle -Andrews
and Thomson wondered if they might also help people prepare for bachelorhood or allow people to learn
from their mistakes. "I started thinking about h<?w, even if you are depressed for a few months, the
depression might be worth it if it helps you better understand social relationships," Andrews says. "Maybe
you realize you need to be less rigid or more loving. Those are insights that can come out of depression, and
they can be very valuable."
This radical idea - the scientists were suggesting that depressive disorder came with a net mental benefit -
has a long intellectual history. Aristotle was there first, stating in the fourth century B.C. "that all men who
have attained excellence in philosophy, in poetry, in art and in politics, even Socrates and Plato, had a
melancholic habitus; indeed some suffered even from melancholic disease." This belief was revived during
the Renaissance, leading Milton to exclaim, in his poem "11 Penseroso": "Hail divinest Melancholy/Whose
saintly visage is too bright/To hit the sense of human sight." The Romantic poets took the veneration of
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sadness to its logical extreme and described suffering as a prerequisite for the literary life. As Keats wrote,
"Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a
soul?"
But Andrews and Thomson weren't interested in ancient aphorisms or poetic apologias. Their daunting
challenge was to show how rumination might lead to improved outcomes, especially when it comes to
solving life's most difficult dilemmas. Their first speculations focused on the core features of depression,
like the inability of depressed subjects to experience pleasure or their lack of interest in food, sex and social
interactions. According to Andrews and Thomson, these awful symptoms came with a productive side
effect, because they reduced the possibility of becoming distracted from the pressing problem.
The capacity for intense focus, they note, relies in large part on a brain area called the left ventrolateral prefrontal cortex (VLPFC), which is located a few inches behind the forehead. While this area has been
associated with a wide variety of mental talents, like conceptual knowledge and verb conjugation, it seems
to be especially important for maintaining attention. Experiments show that neurons in the VLPFC must
fire continuously to keep us on task so that we don't become sidetracked by irrelevant information.
Furthermore, deficits in the VLPFC have been associated with attention-deficit disorder.
Several studies found an increase in brain activity (as measured indirectly by blood flow) in the VLPFC of
depressed patients. Most recently, a paper to be published next month by neuroscientists in China found a
spike in "functional connectivity" between the lateral prefrontal cortex and other parts of the brain in depressed patients, with more severe depressions leading to more prefrontal activity. One explanation for
this finding is that the hyperactive VLPFC underlies rumination, allowing people to stay focused on their
problem. (Andrews and Thomson argue that this relentless fixation also explains the cognitive deficits of
depressed subjects, as they are too busy thinking about their real-life problems to bother with an artificial
lab exercise; their VLPFC can't be bothered to care.) Human attention is a scarce resource - the neural
effects of depression make sure the resource is efficiently allocated.
But the reliance on the VLPFC doesn't just lead us to fixate on our depressing situation; it also leads to an
extremely analytical style of thinking. That's because rumination is largely rooted in working memory, a
kind of mental scratchpad that allows us to "work" with all the information stuck in consciousness. When people rely on working memory - and it doesn't matter if they're doing long division or contemplating a
relationship gone wrong - they tend to think in a more deliberate fashion, breaking down their complex
problems into their simpler parts.
The bad news is that this deliberate thought process is slow, tiresome and prone to distraction; the prefrontal cortex soon grows exhausted and gives out. Andrews and Thomson see depression as a way of
bolstering our feeble analytical skills, making it easier to pay continuous attention to a difficult dilemma.
The downcast mood and activation of the VLPFC are part of a "coordinated system" that, Andrews and
Thomson say, exists "for the specific purpose of effectively analyzing the complex life problem that triggered
the depression." If depression didn't exist - if we didn't react to stress and trauma with endless ruminations - then we would be less likely to solve our predicaments. Wisdom isn't cheap, and we pay for it
with pain.
Consider a young professor on tenure track who was treated by Thomson. The patient was having
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difficulties with his academic department. "This guy was used to success coming easy, but now it wasn't,"
Thomson says. "I made it clear that I thought he'd need some time to figure out his next step. His problem
was like a splinter, and the pain wouldn't go away until the splinter was removed." Should the patient leave
the department? Should he leave academia? Or should he try to resolve the disagreement? Over the next
several weeks, Thomson helped the patient analyze his situation and carefully think through the
alternatives. "We took it one variable at a time," Thomson says. "And it eventually became clear to him that
the departmental issues couldn't be fixed. He needed to leave. Once he came to that conclusion, he started
feeling better."
The publication of Andrews and Thomson's 36,ooo-word paper in the July 2009 issue of Psychological
Review had a polarizing effect on the field. While some researchers, like Jerome Wakefield, a professor at
New York University who specializes in the conceptual foundations of clinical theory, greeted the paper as
"an extremely important first step toward the re-evaluation of depression," other psychiatrists regarded it as
little more than irresponsible speculation, a justification for human suffering. Peter Kramer, a professor of psychiatry and human behavior at Brown University, describes the paper as "a ladder with a series of weak
tungs." Kramer has long defended the use of antidepressants - his landmark work, "Listening to Prozac,"
chronicled the profound improvements of patients taking the drugs - and criticized those who
romanticized depression, which he compares to the glamorization of tuberculosis in the late 19th century. In
a series of e-mail messages to me, Kramer suggested that Andrews and Thomson neglect the variants of
depression that don't fit their evolutionary theory. "This study says nothing about chronic depression and
the sort of self-hating, paralyzing, hopeless, circular rumination it inspires," Kramer wrote. And what about
post-stroke depression? Late-life depression? Extreme depressive condition? Kramer argues that there's a clear category difference between a healthy response to social stressors and the response of people with
depressive disorder. "Depression is not really like sadness," Kramer has written. "It's more an oppressive
flattening of feeling."
Even scientists who are sympathetic to what Andrews and Thomson call the "analytic-rumination
hypothesis" remain critical of its details. Ed Hagen, an anthropologist at Washington State University who
is working on a book with Andrews, says that while the analytic-rumination hypothesis has persuaded him
that some depressive symptoms might improve problem-solving skills, he remains unconvinced that it is a
sufficient explanation for depression. "Individuals with major depression often don't groom, bathe and
sometimes don't even use the toilet," Hagen says. They also significantly "reduce investment in child care,"
which could have detrimental effects on the survival of offspring. The steep fitness costs of these behaviors,
Hagen says, would not be offset by "more uninterrupted time to think."
Other scientists, including Randolph Nesse at the University of Michigan, say that complex psychiatric
disorders like depression rarely have simple evolutionary explanations. In fact, the analytic-rumination hypothesis is merely the latest attempt to explain the prevalence of depression. There is, for example, the
"plea for help" theory, which suggests that depression is a way of eliciting assistance from loved ones.
There's also the "signal of defeat" hypothesis, which argues that feelings of despair after a loss in social
status help prevent unnecessary attacks; we're too busy sulking to fight back. And then there's "depressive
realism": several studies have found that people with depression have a more accurate view of reality and
are better at predicting future outcomes. While each of these speculations has scientific support, none are sufficient to explain an illness that afflicts so many people. The moral, Nesse says, is that sadness, like
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happiness, has many functions.
Although Nesse says he admires the analytic-rumination hypothesis, he adds that it fails to capture the
heterogeneity of depressive disorder. Andrews and Thomson compare depression to a fever helping to fight
off infection, but N esse says a more accurate metaphor is chronic pain, which can arise for innumerable
reasons. "Sometimes, the pain is going to have an organic source," he says. "Maybe you've slipped a disc or
pinched a nerve, in which case you've got to solve that underlying problem. But much of the time there is no
origin for the pain. The pain itself is the dysfunction."
Andrews and Thomson respond to such criticisms by acknowledging that depression is a vast continuum, a
catch-all term for a spectrum of symptoms. While the analytic-rumination hypothesis might explain those
patients reacting to an "acute stressor," it can't account for those whose suffering has no discernible cause
or whose sadness refuses to lift for years at a time. "To say that depression can be useful doesn't mean it's
always going to be useful," Thomson says. "Sometimes, the symptoms can spiral out of control. The
problem, though, is that as a society, we've come to see depression as something that must always be
avoided or medicated away. We've been so eager to remove the stigma from depression that we've ended up
stigmatizing sadness."
For Thomson, this new theory of depression has directly affected his medical practice. "That's the litmus
test for me," he says. "Do these ideas help me treat my patients better?" In recent years, Thomson has cut
back on antidepressant prescriptions, because, he says, he now believes that the drugs can sometimes
interfere with genuine recovery, making it harder for people to resolve their social dilemmas. "I remember
one patient who came in and said she needed to reduce her dosage," he says. "I asked her if the
antidepressants were working, and she said something I'll never forget. 'Yes, they're working great,' she told
me. 'I feel so much better. But I'm still married to the same alcoholic son of a bitch. It's just now he's
tolerable.' "
The point is the woman was depressed for a reason; her pain was about something. While the drugs made
her feel better, no real progress was ever made. Thomson's skepticism about antidepressants is bolstered by
recent studies questioning their benefits, at least for patients with moderate depression. Consider a 2005
paper led by Steven Hollon, a psychologist at Vanderbilt University: he found that people on
antidepressants had a 76 percent chance of relapse within a year when the drugs were discontinued. In
contrast, patients given a form of cognitive talk therapy had a relapse rate of 31 percent. And Hollon's data
aren't unusual: several studies found that patients treated with medication were approximately twice as
likely to relapse as patients treated with cognitive behavior therapy. "The high relapse rate suggests that the
drugs aren't really solving anything," Thomson says. "In fact, they seem to be interfering with the solution,
so that patients are discouraged from dealing with their problems. We end up having to keep people on the
drugs forever. It was as if these people have a bodily infection, and modem psychiatry is just treating their
fever."
Thomson describes a college student who was referred to his practice. "It was clear that this patient was in a
lot of pain," Thomson says. "He couldn't sleep, couldn't study. He had some family issues" - his parents
were recently divorced - "and his father was exerting a tremendous amount of pressure on him to go to
graduate school. Because he's got a family history of depression, the standard of care would be to put him
on drugs right away. And a few years ago, that's what I would have done."
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Instead, Thomson was determined to help the student solve his problem. "What you're trying to do is speed
along the rumination process," Thomson says. "Once you show people the dilemma they need to solve, they
almost always start feeling better." He cites as evidence a recent study that found "expressive writing"-
asking depressed subjects to write essays about their feelings - led to significantly shorter depressive
episodes. The reason, Thomson suggests, is that writing is a form of thinking, which enhances our natural
problem-solving abilities. "This doesn't mean there's some miracle cure," he says. "In most cases, the
recovery period is going to be long and difficult. And that's what I told this young student. I said: 'I know you're hurting. I know these problems seem impossible. But they're not. And I can help you solve them.' "
IT'S TOO SOON to judge the analytic-rumination hypothesis. Nobody knows if depression is an adaptation
or if Andrews and Thomson have merely spun another "Just So" story, a clever evolutionary tale that lacks
direct evidence. Nevertheless, their speculation is part of a larger scientific re-evaluation of negative moods,
which have long been seen as emotional states to avoid. The dismissal of sadness and its synonyms is
perhaps best exemplified by the rise of positive psychology, a scientific field devoted to the pursuit of happiness. In recent years, a number of positive psychologists have written popular self-help books, like
"The How of Happiness" and "Authentic Happiness," that try to outline the scientific principles behind
"lasting fulfillment" and "getting the life we want."
The new research on negative moods, however, suggests that sadness comes with its own set of benefits and
that even our most unpleasant feelings serve an important purpose. Joe Forgas, a social psychologist at the
University of New South Wales in Australia, has repeatedly demonstrated in experiments that negative moods lead to better decisions in complex situations. The reason, Forgas suggests, is rooted in the
intertwined nature of mood and cognition: sadness promotes "information-processing strategies best suited
to dealing with more-demanding situations." This helps explain why test subjects who are melancholy -
Forgas induces the mood with a short film about death and cancer - are better at judging the accuracy of
rumors and recalling past events; they're also much less likely to stereotype strangers.
Last year Forgas ventured beyond the lab and began conducting studies in a small stationery store in
suburban Sydney, Australia. The experiment itself was simple: Forgas placed a variety of trinkets, like toy
soldiers, plastic animals and miniature cars, near the checkout counter. As shoppers exited, Forgas tested
their memory, asking them to list as many of the items as possible. To control for the effect of mood, Forgas
conducted the survey on gray, rainy days- he accentuated the weather by playing Verdi's "Requiem"- and
on sunny days, using a soundtrack of Gilbert and Sullivan. The results were clear: shoppers in the "low mood" condition remembered nearly four times as many of the trinkets. The wet weather made them sad,
and their sadness made them more aware and attentive.
The enhancement of these mental skills might also explain the striking correlation between creative
production and depressive disorders. In a survey led by the neuroscientist Nancy Andreasen, 30 writers
from the Iowa Writers' Workshop were interviewed about their mental history. Eighty percent of the writers
met the formal diagnostic criteria for some form of depression. A similar theme emerged from biographical
studies of British writers and artists by Kay Redfield Jamison, a professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins, who found that successful individuals were eight times as likely as people in the general population to suffer
from major depressive illness.
Why is mental illness so closely associated with creativity? Andreasen argues that depression is intertwined
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with a "cognitive style" that makes people more likely to produce successful works of art. In the creative
process, Andreasen says, "one of the most important qualities is persistence." Based on the Iowa sample,
Andreasen found that "successful writers are like prizefighters who keep on getting hit but won't go down.
They'll stick with it until it's right." While Andreasen acknowledges the burden of mental illness - she
quotes Robert Lowell on depression not being a "gift of the Muse" and describes his reliance on lithium to
escape the pain - she argues that many forms of creativity benefit from the relentless focus it makes
possible. "Unfortunately, this type of thinking is often inseparable from the suffering," she says. "If you're at
the cutting edge, then you're going to bleed."
And then there's the virtue of self-loathing~ which is one of the symptoms of depression. When people are
stuck in the ruminative spiral, their achievements become invisible; the mind is only interested in what has
gone wrong. While this condition is typically linked to withdrawal and silence - people become unwilling to
communicate - there's some suggestive evidence that states of unhappiness can actually improve our
expressive abilities. Forgas said he has found that sadness correlates with clearer and more compelling sentences, and that negative moods "promote a more concrete, accommodative and ultimately more
successful communication style." Because we're more critical of what we're writing, we produce more
refined prose, the sentences polished by our angst. As Roland Barthes observed, "A creative writer is one for
whom writing is a problem."
This line of research led Andrews to conduct his own experiment, as he sought to better understand the link
between negative mood and improved analytical abilities. He gave 115 undergraduates an abstract-
reasoning test known as Raven's Progressive Matrices, which requires subjects to identify a missing
segment in a larger pattern. (Performance on the task strongly predicts general intelligence.) The first thing
Andrews found was that nondepressed students showed an increase in "depressed affect" after taking the
test. In other words, the mere presence of a challenging problem - even an abstract puzzle - induced a
kind of attentive trance, which led to feelings of sadness. It doesn't matter if we're working on a
mathematical equation or working through a broken heart: the anatomy of focus is inseparable from the
anatomy of melancholy. This suggests that depressive disorder is an extreme form of an ordinary thought
process, part of the dismal machinery that draws us toward our problems, like a magnet to metal.
But is that closeness effective? Does the despondency help us solve anything? Andrews found a significant
correlation between depressed affect and individual performance on the intelligence test, at least once the
subjects were distracted from their pain: lower moods were associated with higher scores. "The results were
clear," Andrews says. "Depressed affect made people think better." The challenge, of course, is persuading
people to accept their misery, to embrace the tonic of despair. To say that depression has a purpose or that
sadness makes us smarter says nothing about its awfulness. A fever, after all, might have benefits, but we
still take pills to make it go away. This is the paradox of evolution: even if our pain is useful, the urge to
escape from the pain remains the most powerful instinct of all.
Jonah Lehrer is the author of"How We Decide" and of the blog The Frontal Cortex. This is his .first article for the magazine.
This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:
Correction: March 14, 2010
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An article on Feb. 28 about the benefits of depression misstated the name of a university in Australia where
studies have been done on the subject. It is the University of New South Wales, not South Wales.
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