It has taken me some time to admit this to myself. My husband has depression. Not the blues, not an occasional sad moment, but full blown, and in all it's guises, Depression, with a capital "D".
What does that mean to me? It means, I have to be stronger than I have been already, I have to be there for him, more than I already am and I have to have the patience of a saint (if there ever was such a thing). Also, it means I have to forget about me and focus on him. Do I sound bitter? Maybe a touch. It has never been, and now, given my husband's condition, never will be, "my turn". Selfish? You sit where I am sitting now and I dare you to call me selfish. Right now, I am defeated. After being born into a house where I had to become an adult very damn quickly, I find myself in that position again. The circumstances may have changed but the end result is still the same. There is no one to take care of me. No one I can go to when I feel sad. No one who will hold me, stroke my hair and smile into my cheek, knowing they are being strong for me. No one to wipe my tears away. Again, I find myself in the position of not being allowed to cry.
When I was growing up, I cooked and did the laundry for my family. I lied for them to cover, (as much as a child can) the fights, my mothers bruises and her strange way of speaking (slurred speech is not easily understood by other children at the ripe age of 4. I never understood why I was spared those cruel and vicious beatings. I never had to undergo the harsh and demeaning words that he spat at my brother. But I had to clean up the mess. Help my mother mop up her face (after she was beaten so badly it resembled ground hamburger more than the face of a woman) I had to bail my brother out of jail when my parents would not. I was saving up for my first car but bail for a juvenile whose parents did not care to find out why he was even arrested, can be expensive. My brother's friend, who was also arrested that night, his parents were hippies from the old days. They had gone to get their son after letting him cool his heals for an hour (to teach him about consequences) but then, later, they held him and eased his fright, toasting him as he had his first brush with "The Man". In my mind, I see them, later in life they would look back and chuckle at his pre-teenage impetus. My first car would have to wait. I never complained. In all honesty, who would listen? I reported these things to the leaders of our church and was accused of being an attention seeking liar. Couldn't they see what was happening? Maybe they did but nobody cared. That is the way I learned my first of life's lessons. The truth is inconsequential. People do not care unless other people can see them caring. Friends are not really friends, not when they are called upon to be one. I was taken in by a charming, rich southern couple who felt the need to teach me manners. This, among other things, had been overlooked by my parents. They taught me to never let them see you cry, never let them know they have made you uncomfortable. Cry, if you really must, inside. Above all, always wear a smile, a mask that will serve you well.
I figured out a few things on my own along the way. But some of this scattered training went with me. I never share my pain (because I had been taught that no one will listen) This little lesson helped me to never trust anyone's intentions. I knew that people were only nice because it suited them but they never really meant it, not really. I know now that what I was taught is not always true but trusting people at their word is still very difficult. Until I met him. He was fresh and honest but strong and courageous. I knew that I had met my best friend, lover and protector. Now, after journeying along life's paths with him for the last fifteen years, I have learned of his terrible illness. Once again, it is up to me to keep things even and comfortable. I will be there for him because I love him and despite his illness, he loves me. He has agreed to go to a counselor if I bring him. He is so weak from this last bout of depression, he cannot even make the phone call for an appointment. Of course I will be there to see that he gets the help he needs. He is the only person I can say this about, I know that if it was me, he would do the same thing.
This journey is not an easy one, but nothing worth doing ever is.
What does that mean to me? It means, I have to be stronger than I have been already, I have to be there for him, more than I already am and I have to have the patience of a saint (if there ever was such a thing). Also, it means I have to forget about me and focus on him. Do I sound bitter? Maybe a touch. It has never been, and now, given my husband's condition, never will be, "my turn". Selfish? You sit where I am sitting now and I dare you to call me selfish. Right now, I am defeated. After being born into a house where I had to become an adult very damn quickly, I find myself in that position again. The circumstances may have changed but the end result is still the same. There is no one to take care of me. No one I can go to when I feel sad. No one who will hold me, stroke my hair and smile into my cheek, knowing they are being strong for me. No one to wipe my tears away. Again, I find myself in the position of not being allowed to cry.
When I was growing up, I cooked and did the laundry for my family. I lied for them to cover, (as much as a child can) the fights, my mothers bruises and her strange way of speaking (slurred speech is not easily understood by other children at the ripe age of 4. I never understood why I was spared those cruel and vicious beatings. I never had to undergo the harsh and demeaning words that he spat at my brother. But I had to clean up the mess. Help my mother mop up her face (after she was beaten so badly it resembled ground hamburger more than the face of a woman) I had to bail my brother out of jail when my parents would not. I was saving up for my first car but bail for a juvenile whose parents did not care to find out why he was even arrested, can be expensive. My brother's friend, who was also arrested that night, his parents were hippies from the old days. They had gone to get their son after letting him cool his heals for an hour (to teach him about consequences) but then, later, they held him and eased his fright, toasting him as he had his first brush with "The Man". In my mind, I see them, later in life they would look back and chuckle at his pre-teenage impetus. My first car would have to wait. I never complained. In all honesty, who would listen? I reported these things to the leaders of our church and was accused of being an attention seeking liar. Couldn't they see what was happening? Maybe they did but nobody cared. That is the way I learned my first of life's lessons. The truth is inconsequential. People do not care unless other people can see them caring. Friends are not really friends, not when they are called upon to be one. I was taken in by a charming, rich southern couple who felt the need to teach me manners. This, among other things, had been overlooked by my parents. They taught me to never let them see you cry, never let them know they have made you uncomfortable. Cry, if you really must, inside. Above all, always wear a smile, a mask that will serve you well.
I figured out a few things on my own along the way. But some of this scattered training went with me. I never share my pain (because I had been taught that no one will listen) This little lesson helped me to never trust anyone's intentions. I knew that people were only nice because it suited them but they never really meant it, not really. I know now that what I was taught is not always true but trusting people at their word is still very difficult. Until I met him. He was fresh and honest but strong and courageous. I knew that I had met my best friend, lover and protector. Now, after journeying along life's paths with him for the last fifteen years, I have learned of his terrible illness. Once again, it is up to me to keep things even and comfortable. I will be there for him because I love him and despite his illness, he loves me. He has agreed to go to a counselor if I bring him. He is so weak from this last bout of depression, he cannot even make the phone call for an appointment. Of course I will be there to see that he gets the help he needs. He is the only person I can say this about, I know that if it was me, he would do the same thing.
This journey is not an easy one, but nothing worth doing ever is.
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