Midnight Musings

I lay awake thinking of his recent depression. The pendulum back-swing from his October manic episode.

The first 9:00 AM wake up call. Then back to the room again and again and again trying to get him to budge. "I know your tired, but the more you sleep the more depressed you'll get, baby." By 11:30 AM he's sick of hearing it and stumbles downstairs in his skivvies, looking barely alive. A peck on the cheek is received but has no energy or affection behind it. He sits on the couch as I make him some eggs and bring him his medication. After two bites of the meal he politely tells me he's done and thanks me.

As the uneaten yolks are being rinsed down the drain the sobbing begins. A deep, mournful cry. A sob so full of sorrow that it hurts my soul. A sorrow with no reason. A sorrow that just is. He doesn't want me to feel sympathy. He doesn't want attention. He can't help his inconsolable state of emotion.

I look and see him in the fetal position on the couch, wailing and sniffing. I go and I hold him. He rests his head on my chest like a child. He's too weak to put his arms around me. Through the sobs and whimpers I occasionally make out an apology. He's sorry for being stupid, weak, a poor provider, unable to hold a job, a liar, an asshole, a loser. He's sorry for being broken. I deserve better. I'm too good for him. He isn't worthy of my love and affection. He's so sorry for being broken. He just wishes he could be normal. He hates himself so much. Why can't he just be normal? Why can't he have a magic button that makes this stupid disease just go away?

His negative ramblings break my heart. I tell him over and over that he does deserve me. He's not stupid or weak or any of those horrible things he had said about himself. There are no words to console him. There is no way for me to draw him back from this pit of despair.  He's wandering blindly through a labyrinth of fog and darkness with no way of escaping.

I feel completely helpless while witnessing his utter hopelessness. I love my husband and never want to see him hurt. His extreme pain makes me want to cry out in turmoil with him. However, I have to be the strong one. I cannot allow his emotions to overtake me. I must be the rock. I desperately try to remain positive, whispering to him how wonderful he truly is.

12:30 PM and the outpouring of emotion has subsided. He wanders up the stairs and falls into bed once more. At 2:00 PM I wake him for work. He dresses and makes his way to the office. His depression is etched in his face. Not just because of the stubble on his jawline, but also his lack of coloring, lines of labor, and the tell-tale signs of crying.

He comes home early, by 5:30 PM, walks up the stairs, undresses and falls back into bed. I wake him briefly at 8:00 PM to take his medication.

I know six weeks of depression is minimal for some of you out there. This was our first experience of depression together. Every night for six weeks I would wake in the middle of the night, several times, and place my hand in the middle of his back. I just wanted to make sure he was breathing. It was by far the most exhausting six weeks of my life.