Creativity and depression: the myth of the suffering artist

“If I go to a psychiatrist, I’ll get pills and never write a decent song again.”

I hear this sentence, in different versions, from people who make a living from creative work: musicians, designers, screenwriters, actresses. It is almost always said calmly, as a fact that needs no checking. Behind it, though, lies something that is hard to say out loud: “Pain is my fuel. If you take it away, I won’t be me any more.” And so a person who hasn’t slept properly for months, who has lost their appetite and who can’t find a reason to get up in the morning stays alone — because they are afraid that in losing the depression they would also lose whatever makes them an artist.

In this post I want to look at where this fear comes from, what we actually know about the link between creativity and mental health problems, and why the myth of the suffering artist is dangerous for so many creative people. Not because it is entirely made up, but because it takes one true finding and draws the wrong conclusion from it.

Where the story of the suffering artist comes from

The idea that genius and madness are related is at least as old as ancient philosophy. Romanticism gave it its most persuasive form: the artist is more sensitive than others, so suffers more, and out of that suffering comes work no one else could produce. Stories of ill painters, poets who died young and composers who wrote in despair are part of our cultural memory. School anthologies love them, because a dramatic biography is easier to remember than a quiet, long working life.

That kind of memory is biased. We don’t tell each other about the thousands of creators who worked in relatively calm lives, had families, went for walks and made a great deal of good work. We tell each other about the ones whose suffering was visible. And because those are the stories we tell, the story starts to behave like a rule: if you want to create deeply, you have to suffer deeply.

In creative professions the story has another function. The work is uncertain, reviews are public, income is irregular. The myth of the suffering artist gives all that weight a meaning: your pain is not the result of impossible conditions or an untreated illness, but proof that you are a real artist. That is comforting. And that is exactly why it is so hard to let go of.

What the research says

The largest study on this question was carried out in Sweden. In 2013 Simon Kyaga and colleagues linked national register data for almost 1.2 million people with mental disorders and their relatives, and compared it with occupational data. The findings are more complicated than media headlines usually suggest.

• People in creative professions were, overall, not more often treated for mental disorders than others. The exception was bipolar disorder, which was somewhat more common among them.
• Writers stood out: several kinds of difficulty were more common among them, including depression, anxiety and substance misuse, as well as suicide.
• Interestingly, the healthy relatives of people with certain severe disorders were more often found in creative professions — not the patients themselves.

This is not proof that illness causes creativity. It rather suggests that some traits — such as openness to unusual connections, intense emotionality, sensitivity to detail — have two sides. In some people, in some circumstances, they show up as creativity. In others, or in the same person at another time, as vulnerability. The psychologist Judith Schlesinger has pointed out in her reviews that much of the older research on the “mad genius” relied on biographies, small samples and loose criteria, so it needs to be read with care.

It also matters what the research does not show: that depression itself makes the work better. This is where the myth starts to crack.

Depression doesn’t feed creativity — it drains it

In a 2008 meta-analysis, Matthijs Baas, Carsten De Dreu and Bernard Nijstad brought together a quarter of a century of research on mood and creativity. The most consistent finding was that creative thinking is linked above all to positive, activating moods — curiosity, enthusiasm, playfulness. Sadness on its own did not consistently improve creativity.

This matches what people describe first-hand. Depression is not a deep, beautiful melancholy in which verses are born. It is heavy, grey and slow. It takes away energy, concentration, memory, and the pleasure in things that once excited you. Anyone who has been through it knows that in the worst weeks you can barely get dressed, let alone finish an album. The technical term for the loss of pleasure is anhedonia, and for a creative person it may be the cruellest part: even the work that once carried them becomes empty. I have written more about this in Anhedonia: when nothing brings joy any more.

When creative people talk about work that came out of pain, they are usually talking about the period after it. The experience of loss, of falling apart, of darkness can be material. But material is one thing, and the state in which a person works is another. Most people could not write about their darkest period while it lasted. They wrote when they had come far enough out of it to be able to look at it.

So the myth confuses two things: the experience of suffering, which can enrich the work, and the illness, which does not enrich the work but stops it.

The fear that keeps people away from help

In my practice I notice that creative people rarely come to a first session because of depression. They come because of a creative block, relationship difficulties, anxiety before an opening night. The depression only shows itself after a while, when it becomes clear that the “block” has lasted two years and is not only about work. What can lie behind the blank page is the subject of Creative block: what lies behind the blank page.

Behind the delay there is often a fear that deserves to be taken seriously rather than brushed aside. A conversation might sound like this (composite, not a real person):

“I wrote my best things when I was at my worst. If you cure me, I’ll be writing about allotments.”
“When did you last write something?”
“… Eight months ago.”
“So now, when you’re at your worst, you’re not writing.”
“No. But this is different.”
“Different how?”
“Before, it was hard, but I could work. Now it’s just empty.”

Everything is in that short exchange. The person has lived through two different states and folded them into one in memory. The time when it was “hard, but it worked” may have been great emotional intensity, perhaps grief, perhaps restlessness. The present state, when it is “just empty”, is something else. And this is exactly what the myth misses: if you don’t tell them apart, you end up protecting the illness in the belief that you are protecting your inspiration.

What happens to creativity during treatment

The most common question is whether medication makes you “numb”. An honest answer has two parts.

The first part: in some people antidepressants do cause a sense of emotional blunting — feelings become quieter, sadness and joy alike. Research confirms this as a known side effect that not everyone experiences. For a creative person who works with feeling, this is important information, not a trifle. The second part: it is not a reason not to start treatment or to stop it on your own. It is a reason to talk about it openly with your psychiatrist. The dose, the type of medication and the timing can all be adjusted, but only together with a doctor. Stopping suddenly can be dangerous.

As early as 1979, the Danish psychiatrist Mogens Schou asked artists who were taking lithium for bipolar disorder how their work had changed. Most reported that they created as much or more, because the periods when they couldn’t work at all had disappeared; for a smaller group productivity went down. The study was small and old, but the message stands: creativity is carried by the person, not by the illness.

Psychotherapy and medication are not rivals. I wrote about what research shows on combining them in Antidepressants and therapy are not rivals. When a psychiatrist should be the first step is described in When you need a psychiatrist first. As a psychotherapist I don’t make diagnoses or prescribe medication; a good first port of call is your GP, who can refer you on.

A low patch or depression?

Creative work has its own rhythms. After a finished project comes emptiness, after an opening night tiredness, between two albums a stretch when it feels as if there’s nothing left to say. That is normal and doesn’t need a diagnosis. So when is it time to stop waiting for it to pass on its own?

A few signs that it makes sense to see a doctor or psychiatrist: your mood has been low nearly every day for more than two weeks; you don’t enjoy anything, including things and people that have nothing to do with work; your sleep and appetite have changed noticeably; your thoughts about yourself have become harsh and sweeping (“I’m worthless”); everyday tasks, like answering an email or having a shower, have become almost impossible. You’ll find a short explanation of depression in the knowledge base under depression, and a description from the inside in What depression feels like from the inside.

Creative people often face one more trap: depression hides behind the rhythm of their work. Because stretches without work are “normal”, nobody notices that the stretch has turned into a year. Because performances and deadlines are fixed, a person pulls themselves together for two hours on stage and then lies in bed for three days. On the outside they function; inside it is empty. Some call this high-functioning depression.

If thoughts of death or suicide appear, don’t wait. In Slovenia, call the crisis line Klic v duševni stiski on 01 520 99 00 (every day from 7 pm to 7 am) or the Samaritan helpline on 116 123 (24 hours a day). If you are in immediate danger, call 112.

Exercise: separate the material from the state

This exercise is not treatment. It is a way to start separating what you want to keep from what you can let go of without losing anything. You’ll need paper and fifteen minutes.

1. Think of a piece of work you’re proud of that came out of a hard period. Write down when exactly you made it — during the worst of it, or later?
2. Divide the page into two columns. On the left, write what the hard period gave the work as material: themes, images, understanding. On the right, what it took from you as a state: days when you couldn’t work, sleep, relationships.
3. Read the left column and ask yourself: would I lose this if I felt better? The experience stays yours even when the pain passes.
4. Read the right column and ask yourself: which of these would I choose again if I could? Write a one-sentence answer.
5. If the right column is long and current, take one small step this week: book an appointment with your GP, or tell someone you trust how you are.

People are often surprised how much in the left column is something no treatment could take away. And how little in the right column is something they would wish on anyone.

Where this explanation falls short

It wouldn’t be honest to claim that the link between creativity and mental health problems is purely a myth. With bipolar disorder things are more complicated. Hypomanic periods can bring a great deal of energy, ideas and confidence, and people who have had them sometimes miss them. Treating bipolar disorder can indeed change those peaks — and the decision about treatment is then harder and more personal. This post is mainly about depression; with bipolar disorder a psychiatrist is an essential partner, and medication needs to be discussed in detail, not refused on the strength of a myth.

Nor am I saying that a creative person has to be happy in order to create. Sadness, anger, grief and anxiety are part of life and part of art. For many people writing or acting is a way of working through pain, and that is valuable. The problem arises when the work becomes the only way a person deals with pain, and when it keeps them from help they need.

And finally: psychotherapy is not always the first or the only answer. With severe depression, with suicidal thoughts, with psychotic symptoms, or when a person can no longer look after themselves, a doctor is needed first.

How psychotherapy can help

In psychotherapy with creative people it often turns out that the myth of the suffering artist is not only a cultural story but a family one too. Someone grew up with a father who was “difficult because he was an artist”. Someone else was only seen as a child when they were drawing or performing — and learned that their worth lies in what they produce. In relational family therapy, in which I am training, we look at how these rules took shape in relationships and how a person carries them forward. Sometimes this is exactly what makes it so hard to separate inspiration from pain: in the family, pain was the only acceptable way to be noticed.

Therapy can also help in more practical ways: with rebuilding a rhythm when everything feels too much. An approach called behavioural activation starts with very small steps rather than big goals — it is described in Behavioural activation: how to get moving when there is no motivation. And it helps you think about a question that often sits in the background for creative people: who am I when I’m not creating? That is the subject of Who are you when you’re not creating.

You can read more about what creativity actually is and how researchers understand it in the knowledge base under creativity. One insight people often take away from therapy is simple: the inspiration was never in the pain. It was in their attention, their sensitivity and their courage to look where others don’t. Those qualities remain when depression passes. Sometimes they are even easier to reach, because they no longer have to compete with exhaustion.

If you are reading this in English and recognise yourself in it, I also work with English-speaking clients, in person in Ljubljana.

What to remember

• Creative professions as a whole are not more burdened by mental disorders; the exception is bipolar disorder, and among writers several kinds of difficulty.
• Creativity is linked more to curiosity and energy than to sadness. Depression stops the work; it doesn’t deepen it.
• Separate the material (experience you can use) from the state (an illness that takes your days). The first remains when the second passes.
• If medication changes the way you feel, tell your psychiatrist — don’t stop it on your own.
• If you have thoughts of suicide, in Slovenia call 116 123 or 01 520 99 00; in danger, 112.