I made her clean my house.

Hear me out.

Over the last few weeks, I have been spending time with a family member who has been struggling with her mental health.

Her view of herself and her place in the world had deteriorated so badly that she was admitted to a residential psychiatric unit, and was diagnosed with psychotic depression.

On Friday last week, I picked her up from the hospital, brought her to my home, and made her clean my house.

Hear me out.

I first visited her in the hospital a few weeks ago.

‘Who are you here to see?’ The nurse at the front desk asked.

I gave my relative’s name.

‘Down the hall and third door on the left,’ she gestured.

‘Thanks. Do you have a bathroom?’

‘Just there, behind me.’

I made my way to the bathroom. I pulled the cubicle door closed. I went to hang my handbag on the coat hook, and noticed two holes where the hook once was.

I gasped. This was my first hint of the sinister, life-threatening current that was flowing beneath the otherwise calm and pleasant exterior of the hospital.

It seemed to be a strangely fitting metaphor for those of us who suffer with poor mental health. We present a calm, inoffensive façade, with a profound threat lurking just underneath.

I washed my hands and made my way up the long, silent, sterile hall.

I approached the heavy door of the ward and attempted to jerk it towards me. It was locked.

The people inside, including my person, were not allowed to come and go of their own free will.

I gestured to a nurse who let me in, and told me the secret code given only to those of us who can be trusted to leave without harming ourselves or others.

I was shown to a quiet waiting room with big windows that looked out onto the hall of the ward and the nurse’s station. I watched the patients shuffle, saunter, and schlepp up and down the hall, deep in thought, occasionally looking behind themselves for something they had lost.

My family member was brought to me. She shuffled towards me while looking at the floor. She looked up, and her face immediately brightened.

‘Can I take her off the ward?’ I asked the nurse.

‘Yes, but just for an hour or so.’

‘Shall we go for a coffee?’ I asked my person.

She nodded.

There is good reason to believe that depression is a disease of loneliness and isolation.

And if it is, the hospital would be a difficult place to get well.

Although the nurses are pleasant, the doctors are competent, and the medication is carefully parcelled out, the place seemed to be built on foundations of isolation and loneliness.

Johann Hari’s book Lost Connections presents evidence that depression is the result of complex social factors: Lack of support, lack of emotional intimacy, lack of community, lack of nature, lack of purpose, lack of a higher power.

And with the latest research bringing into question the link between serotonin and depression, and the efficacy of antidepressants, it seems to make room for Hari’s theory.

For my loved one, I felt almost certain that her condition was a social one.

She had fallen out with several family members, including her own children. With zero conflict resolution skills, she had moved far away, to the other end of Scotland, alone.

For years she had lived with no one to care for, and believing no-one cared about her.

That would kill me in a couple of years. God knows how she survived this long. Those are the conditions of hell for many people, and especially the sensitive women in my family.

She gulped down the last of her latte.

‘I have to go back now. They want to check if I know how to use a microwave.’

The sentence seemed so absurd, I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or having a delusion.

We headed back to the ward, and sure enough, the occupational therapist was there to check if my person - who was / is a highly-educated, well-respected medical professional, mother-of-two, and accomplished artist - knew how to fling a microwave meal in the hole, slam the door, type 5:00, and hit start.

It made me weirdly angry.

It was so condescending, so ludicrous, and so focused on the wrong thing.

Seemingly, this training had to happen because one of the reasons my person ended up there was because she wasn’t feeding herself properly.

The entire mental health treatment system seemed oblivious to the fact that a woman with two kids, a formerly good job, a degree, and a life filled with hobbies, obviously knows how to work a microwave.

The real issue is that she has no motivation, no desire, to feed herself.

And this is because she has no purpose, literally, no reason to live.

I asked the nurse if I could take my person out for longer next time. I wanted to take her to my house, reintroduce her to normal life, and ask a favour of her.

If depression is a social disease, then asking a favour of a depressed person could improve their condition. A heartfelt request says, ‘I need you. I can’t do this without you. You matter to me. You have an important place in my life.’

I text my person and told her that I needed help getting the house cleaned for my in-laws coming to stay for my wedding.

‘Could you help me?’ I asked.

‘Of course!’ She replied.

I have never witnessed someone so excited about cleaning another person’s home.

On Friday, I picked her up and brought her to my house. To normal life. Back into the fold of a loving family. With croissants for breakfast, and laundry to do. Music playing, photos on the wall, and neighbours to say hello to.

Together, we cleaned my home. She stripped the bed like she’d been doing it for 40 years. She dusted and hoovered and mopped and polished. She was back to herself again.

She even heated my croissant in the microwave.

She was a great help to me, and I told her so.

I believe that cleaning my home was also a great help to her. It filled some of the emotional vacancies that, I believe, may have led to her depression. She had a purpose. We were doing it together as a family. The sun was shining and the trees swayed outside the window. She mattered to someone, and she was helping someone who mattered to her.

I took her for an ice cream to say ‘thank you’ before returning her to her (hopefully) temporary accommodation.

She looked back, smiled, and waved.

This article should not be taken in place of medical advice, but if you recognize yourself or someone you know in this article, I definitely recommend you check out Johann Hari’s book Lost Connections, and aim to restore some of the connections that may have been lost. It might just be the missing piece to healing.