“I want so bad for you to be happy,” he said. His head was in his hands and I was having to make his words out through his lips squished against his giant palms. “But I know how hard it is for you.”
That is when it struck me. I am impossible to be with.
The husband I married is a people pleaser. And it’s on steroids when it comes to me. He practically breaks his back bending over for me, and like a queen made of stone, I sit unamused.
His desperation isn’t out of any inferiority, he is still the king so it is out of pure love. And I understand it. I can be sacrificial at times, but my entire priorities don’t revolve around another person. Call him crazy, but it’s who he is. From the moment we wakes up to the moment he sleeps, I am always in regard.
And he is like this in a smaller level with friends and family. Constantly analyzing the situation to make sure every soul in the room is happy. He is like a love robot who can sense any neglect in the room and can pour his love on to others.
This wouldn’t be a problem if people knew how to appropriately reciprocate. And by people, I mainly mean me. And I can’t help but feel like my depression is holding me back.
You know how when people dabble in dark magic in movies and books, and the more they do it the darker they become? Innocent and brilliant people brought to the darkness. I feel like that’s my depression.
Thanks to CBD (which I need to tell y’all how that went), my anxiety is gone. My depression, however, is still ever present.
I work at home, now. I don’t have to clock in to get paid, I only have to get work done. So I find myself moseying around, and being lazy in between getting work done. I don’t have enough to fill 40 hours yet, so the others are spent in a depressed state on my porch or in my bed.
This alone time has granted me a time to look inward. And what have I done? I dive in.
My depression has done more than climb up from the back seat, it has taken the wheel. I try to search and find meaning, only to be lost in a void that makes no sense. My drowning is subtle as chemicals hold its claws back from gouging my eyeballs out. But I am still face to face with this monster.
My stomach feels heavy. It’s odd if you never have felt it. It’s like eating a big meal but there is no satisfaction involved. It drags, almost, with each step I take. Like I’m glitching in the matrix and my stomach is a few pixels behind.
You know how things matter? I don’t recall. Why shower? I’ll only get dirty again. Why clean? It will only be a mess in a few hours. Eating? I ate three times yesterday, isn’t that enough? These games that used to excite me are boring. I even look at my office to work on my story board and my chest is like soft ice cream scooped out in front of me.
I look at the food in my fridge and imagine eating it. It tastes like rubber. Goes down like cardboard. I’d much rather take a yogurt.
And when my husband comes home to embrace me, I try to take in his presence. I appreciate him as much I can, but my fire is snuffed by the shadow that looms over my shoulder.
“What do you want to eat? I’ll make it for you.”
What I hear is make a decision you haven’t been able to make all day. I groan, I hide. I don’t know. He sighs. He’s sad. He only wants to help.
We walk into the room and I crawl into the bed and get under the covers. He joins in behind me, wrapping his massive arms around my tiny body. For a moment, everything is okay. And that makes me lose it. I cry in our bed as he holds me tight wishing that his presence was enough for me. Because it always has been for him.
He urges me to take CBD drops. Over and over. Each time I pull the sheets over my head. Finally I push him away and do as he asks and sit in my misery as I wait for it to calm me. And I watch him sit in confusion. Did he upset me? He was only trying to help. He wasn’t pushing anything on me, he just wants me to stop suffering.
Then he pulls me outside. He knows that’s where I want to be. He knows I trap myself in this house all day and the walls just remind me of my state of mind. So he pulls me out. I sit and stare in silence for what seems like hours, but luckily for me only minutes pass. He pokes just once. Asking what I’m thinking about. By my reaction, he doesn’t touch the subject again. He spends the night to talk about things that would keep my mind busy like super powers and playing trivia. And yet the slightest bit of poking fun sends me back into a spiral. And I am the unamused queen yet again.
I close myself into anxieties that have no pull in fright, but an anchor in my depression. I lose myself in trails of sentences I should say that I won’t. I’m gone for a moment. And he just tries to bring me back. Which brings me back to my cement stomach. All he wants is for me to be happy.
Eventually he falls asleep. Something he apologizes for every morning. I can’t blame him. He woke up at 6 this morning. Worked in a warehouse until 5, and came home to a task that could never be completed.
I’m tired too.