I want to stop writing about depression.
I want to stop writing about depression. I’m sick of writing about depression.
I had fooled myself into thinking that I might not feel this way anymore. After the divorce. I was free, I thought.
I remember feeling like this before. I remember sitting outside on the little deck attached to our upstairs bedroom. I liked it there. I could look into the little natural waterway below and the overgrowth of trees and brush that bordered our house. I remember sitting on the little plastic chair, my mind turning a million ways, hoping that it would just go away. Wishing that he would notice and help me but not knowing how he could. Sometimes it seems like I spent our whole marriage waiting for him. To come home, to notice, to care, to lighten up, to respect me. He didn’t know what to do. How could he? Once it was so bad that I carried the phone book (yes, an actual phone book) to that little deck and called a depression hot line. They put me on hold for so long, I gave up and hung up.
I had thought it was the marriage. That’s what depression does. It convinces you that whatever situation you are in at that moment is the reason you’re depressed. I was in a troubled marriage. It was the marriage.
But here I am three years out and I feel as low as I did on the deck on Forest Hill.
After the break up there was sadness and grief and anxiety. There were decisions to make and jobs to get. And there was fun. Lots of fun. Learning to dance with Liz. Hanging out with Sam and Lapin before the veils of their dysfunctions fell away. Being asked out on dates. Flirting and figuring it out. I think the activity of the first couple of years, kept it away, except for a minor tremor here and there.
But it’s back now, so it wasn’t the marriage. I have to wonder what it must have been like to live with me like that. I was so sad and confused and there wasn’t anything anyone could do. I remember once, he finally noticed how down I was so he took me to see a movie, The Fountain. Possibly one of the saddest movies ever made. A weird story about a woman who dies of cancer and her scientist husband’s futile attempt to save her. This was only a year or two after my own mother’s death from cancer. I cried my eyes out the whole time. Another time he took me to a Beatles tribute band.
It’s a weird thing, but any sentimentality gets me crying when I’m depressed. I can’t hear a beautiful song, or watch an inspiring movie. The beauty of the world becomes my enemy. It takes me down. I cried through the first two Beatles songs, remembering my childhood and missing my mom. Luckily he got an “emergency” work call and he wanted to leave. Imagine if I had been enjoying myself.
I think I laid some of the blame of my depression on him. So judgemental, so critical. We lived in an environment of underlying tension. It didn’t help. But he didn’t cause it either. And any other person wouldn’t have been able to change it. Mitigate it, maybe. Distract it, perhaps. Some humor, compassion and understanding might have helped. Or insistence that I get help instead of scrutinizing the expense of therapists and medications.
I’m happy to be alone now. I may be depressed but it’s my depression. I can act on it as I see fit. I can treat it how I decide to. I can stay in bed and watch tv. I have no one to answer to. But I do wish I had someone to distract me with laughter or dates or sex.
He used to take me for drives. That’s one of the few things I miss about him. He loved to drive and we would get in his little red civic or later the miatas and just meander the back roads of Acadiana or the beach views of the Gulf Coast. I liked that. I miss that. I’d like to go on a long drive with someone right now.
Instead, I sit in this coffee shop, peek at the cute guy on the couch, watch the sun go down and wonder when I’ll feel myself again. I wonder how many times my brain can take these imbalances. How many times my soul can feel such sadness. How many times I will write about depression. And if I will ever be really free.
From → Rantings