It wasn’t until we were lying in bed that he finally told me what was wrong.

Coming home, he had expected to find me waiting. Instead he found groceries haphazardly tossed on the floor.

As he picked up the frozen chicken, he prepared himself. He knew I was sad, but he had hoped it hand’t come to this.

He put the chicken in the fridge slowly, as if to give himself more time. He turned to walk to the basement, my predetermined location, and his eye caught a figure out the window. He saw me sitting on the back porch, crying and holding our dog. He exhaled, walked outside, and sat down beside me.

Laying beside me he yelled “I was fully prepared to find you dead today.” I sucked in a breath and felt my eyes grow hot. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this, wondering if you’ll be alive when I come home.” I squeezed my eyes shut, held him close, and cried. Through tears, snot, and a breaking heart I whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

But I couldn’t say for what.

Written July 2015


 

As hard as depression is for me, it’s infinitely harder for my husband. He’s my support and number one cheerleader. But he’s also the person who listens to my darker thoughts. He’s the one that will find me if I ever do something stupid. He’s the one that will hurt the most by my hurt. And I can’t imagine that kind of fear. I try to, writing down the story above helped, but it’s nothing compared to worrying your other half will harm themselves.

Apologizing for being depressed doesn’t really work. But I want him to forgive me. But I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s confusing. Being wrapped up in love and sickness, trust and fear, anger and empathy.

Over time we put up safeguards to shelter our marriage from the devastating effects of depression. I no longer unload all my darkness on him alone, but on counselors and close, trusted friends. I’ve pledged to not fight alone, to come to him when I would rather sink into depression and suicidal thoughts.

And when the storm comes, we lean on the safeguards. Holding each other, clinging to hope, desperately praying for relief.

And it comes. Slowly. But it comes.

It always comes.

Sarah C.

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