In Questions and Answers I try (as a true ExpEx, Expert-by-Experience) to answer some of your questions, as brief as possible.
Question that was asked yesterday:
“Why do we isolate ourselves when we are depressed?”
Answer: In my view there are four main factors that can make us isolate ourselves when in a depression: (1) Broken Filtering, (2) Exhaustion, (3) Shame and (4) Alienation.
The first one means that during depression, all sensory impulses from the world around us can come in either too weak, or much too harsh and intense; in which case we tend to protect ourselves from total confusion by temporarily “shutting off”. For a description of this mechanism, see my post Broken Filtering.
The next two factors, exhaustion and shame, are more self-evident. Exhaustion can be caused either directly by depression itself, or by the lack of adequate sleep that sometimes comes with depression. We then isolate ourselves because we feel we don’t have any energy left to get in touch with others. As for shame, this of course has to do with the self-deprecation that is inherent to depression. I discussed this several times here; for an example see my post Shame.
The fourth factor is the feeling that we’re already isolated and alone anyway, that nobody understands us in our depression, so it won’t matter anymore: a kind of indifference together with a feeling of alienation. For a description that comes close to this effect, see my post Fleeing the Party.
Manuel’s suicide was probably not the result of a sudden impulse. It appears to have been premeditated. The day before, he had thanked a fellow member of The Band for “twenty-five years of incredible music”. His death had to do with three factors that sadly are not uncommon when it comes to suicidal depression: alcoholism, disillusion, and loss.
At the time of his death, Manuel was disillusioned. Disappointed in himself. The Band, although still touring, had lost much of its former creativity and vigor. They had become a shadow of their former selves, just routinely cashing in on their old successes. And they knew it. Apart from that, Manuel was also facing loss. Two months before, his manager – who was so close to him as to be a kind of father figure – had suddenly died. Likely, this added to a mood of depression and desperation. 
Of course I don’t know what exactly was in his mind. But I do know, and I strongly suspect this also happened here, that shame can be a strong factor in keeping one’s suicidal intentions secret. In theory, we all know that being depressed is not something to be ashamed for. In reality, it still happens very often that people just do not dare to discuss the true scope and seriousness of their depression with anyone – not even the person closest to them. It is depression itself that generates and fuels such shame. For depression can not only lead to self-isolation: it also implies self-deprecation, and often self-stigmatization too.
I would have liked to say that if Richard Manuel had dared to talk more openly with others about his feelings, he might have been still alive as an old man today. But in his case, I suppose we cannot even say such a thing. Probably, he would have succumbed anyway to cirrhosis or some other consequence of his alcoholism. I still wonder if he kept drinking so much to forget his shame, or if he felt even more shame because he kept drinking. Both, I guess.
I once spent some time in the psychiatry ward of a hospital that was clearly understaffed – meaning that the few staff members always were busy and in a hurry. One day I found a very depressed patient sitting on the floor of a passageway: crouched against the wall, her head down, motionless. Like all others, I just walked around her. Ten minutes later I passed her again: she was still sitting at the same spot, crouched on the floor tiles, petrified. But this time I noticed something with her jeans: it looked like she had wet her pants.
Faces. Handshakes. Waving. Even some kisses. I found my host and handed him my present. He really did seem to like it. I got myself some food, a glass of beer. On my way to a quiet corner I was welcomed by more people. Some in the crowd appeared to know me while I had no clue who they were (more about that in one of my next posts, “The Wiped Brain”). I caught shreds of small talk such as “Do you live nearby? Oh now that‘s a nice place!” Everyone looked so happy and animated – somehow all this reminded me of the obligatory opening scene of old disaster movies, the scene where people laugh and dance and chat and drink merrily without suspecting a horrible catastrophe is about to befall them. Without noticing the tiny but clear indications that something might be wrong.
May 25, 1965 –
