Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.

We’re in the long, strange chapter of recovery after an illness. My wife—my fair maiden—is better, but she’s not well. Emotionally, spiritually, we’re both limping. Her recovery has been strange. I think it’s the depression.

Last night was a bad night.

Dark moods confuse everything: Am I feeling bad because my body is fighting a virus, or because my brain chemistry is distorted?

With her, it’s always difficult. A friend once described her personality as mercurial. That’s an accurate assessment. When she got sick, it leveled her out. She felt bad, yes—but there was a consistency to her thinking and behavior that was almost comforting. You knew where you stood.

Now, in recovery, I’m back to guessing. What will give comfort? What will support? I don’t like the phrase walking on eggshells to describe her—but I haven’t found a better way to express this moment-to-moment calibration of what works and what doesn’t.

Late in the afternoon, I notice her crying. A friend has texted: “I love you. What can I do?”—and she finds it touching. The tearful reaction is new. She isn’t emotional this way. She only cries under tremendous stress. A really bad fight might do it. Otherwise, never.

But this is the kind of crying that comes from deep depression—the kind that arrives unbidden. The kind you can’t just deep-breathe your way through. You have to let it happen.

I offer some words of consolation. A little back rub. I’m camped at the wall of her anxiety, shouting up what few things I think might help her feel loved.

A little while later, I suggest we go to the café bookstore for a change of scenery. We’ve been tossing around ideas for a children’s coloring book about ducks in space. I suggest we go sit in the space, chat, and draw. She agrees.

On the way, she floats the idea of the park instead.

It’s 94º.

I balk—but I acquiesce. Because what else do you do when someone you love asks for comfort, even if it’s wrapped in confusion?

It’s aggravating—no explanation, just a venue change. Resistance to what we agreed. But I know she’s feeling unstable. So maybe this is what she needs. I don’t think so—but I’m only trusted when she agrees with my decisions.

“No, no, no... we can go to the bookstore,” she says, when she can tell it makes me unhappy. But after all these years, I know what that means. If I don’t make a left and find that little lake by the museum, I’ll hear about it later.

And as it turns out, I’ll hear about it later regardless.

The park is too hot. She’s mad because the van AC is disabled after I left the lights and fans running for a week. I counter: had I known we were going to the park in ninety-degree weather, I would’ve charged it. She rebuts: if I had told her more clearly the AC was off, she’d have worn shorts. Counter-counter: had I known she wanted the park, I’d have suggested we charge the battery and/or she wear shorts.

The sparring of warring partners. Like a reluctant dance of swordplay.
I don’t love confrontation, but I seem incapable of avoiding it.

It’s not a fun time.

This goes on for hours, as conflict does. Not a big fight. Just a slow, frustrating simmer. I probably make it worse by finally realizing this is neither a problem I can solve nor a fight I can win, so I switch on Yes, dear.

Yes, dear is a subroutine that runs on my processor. It just lays down and lets it all happen.

Eventually—around ten—we get down to the core of it.

We tell each other: 'I don’t feel loved'.

Funny, those kinds of admissions. We’re both surprised to hear it.

I’m shocked, honestly. I’ve been bending over backwards for months—trying to be who she needs. Failing, of course. Wrestling my own demons, yes. But trying. Hard.

For her part, she knows communication is a weakness, but doesn't understand how important commendation, acknowledgement, support, and trust are to me. Words of affirmation. I need a cheerleader.

It morphs into conversation about others—how people around us have mostly moved on from our grief, how little support we’ve received, how often we feel outside the circle. The system. The circus. Whatever you want to call the club of friends we used to trust.

Not all of them, to be fair. We have a few who are truly invested. But most stay at arm’s length. It’s frustrating. Especially when you know how many sacrifices we’ve made. How much of our life we’ve put on hold for others.

This isn’t just a passing cloud. It’s a realization.

We’re living in the dark.

And then, it gets worse.

She tells me that during a visit earlier in the day, her mother and sister—rather than offer any comfort—chided her for the house not being cleaner. (That’s on me, I’ve been on clutter control since she got sick—laundry, dishes, floors, everything.) Then her mother, rather than offering compassion, comments on my wife’s dark circles and implies that maybe I’m abusing her.

Because she looks tired. From being deathly ill.

And that—that—is why my wife was crying. Why she was erratic. Why she seemed “crazy.”

It carried me back to a day in early February when two 'friends' came under the pretense of offering support for the funeral we'd had 5 days earlier but instead pursued an inquiry about acts in my past. Grilling my grieving wife about how she felt about it. What she knew. Explaining what I was supposed to be.

We had asked for surgeons, what we got was two monkeys with sticks. And today, we thought two allies were warming our couches, but it was really two pin-less grenades.

And now I’m livid.

Now I want to punch someone. To lash out. To abuse and break and rage. All of that violence that I shroud in love and kindness and the message of God's word that I think is chemically diluted with holy spirit is suddenly collating into that hideous creature that claws it's way out of my psyche at the worst moments.

But the one place you can never insert yourself is between your wife and her family. I don't know if this is true for all cultures... but it certainly is with her people.

It shouldn’t be that way. We are one flesh.
But I think only death will sever this unholy connection.

My wife admits: after the deaths of her father and sister, “the best part of my family is gone.”

The relationship is so toxic that her sister berated her, insisting she show kindness to the woman who was given our seats at the funeral in February. A lifelong family associate. A textbook narcissist. The same woman who was repeatedly unfaithful to one of my closest friends, her former husband. Forgiven at least six times. Since then, more of the same.

Her business. We don’t want to live her life.
But we don’t have to accept her manipulation and belittling either.

And yet—for some reason—my wife is being told we have to.

W
t
F

I’d be fine with just being angry. But this emotional burden keeps putting me in the crosshairs with my best friend.

And I don’t know what to do.

To be a better man. A better husband. A better friend.

Endure.
That’s what.

Sometimes people just feel like destroying something beautiful.

And I think we are beautiful.

In spite of her failings. In spite of mine.

People love us. The better the people, the more they love us.

I can’t think of a clearer indicator of doing something right than that.

But maybe I’m wrong.

I’ve been learning about my pathological need for approval.

How it’s tied to a lack of affection and love as a child.
So maybe I just see the love of others as evidence that I am worth loving.

Which makes it worse when I don’t get it.
When I’m not celebrated. When we’re not accepted.
It weaves itself into everything I say and do.

It’s like others define me.

Including—and especially—my wife.

This is a hard road.

I knew that losing her sister would change her.
That losing her father—the one man she trusted—would destabilize her.

But knowing something will happen isn’t the same as knowing how it will manifest. The ways it changes.

So all I can do is endure. To 'mule'.

Support her. Shout up from the wall those things you say to someone in pain.

Because I love her. And I hope I can help.

But it’s a heavy load to bear.

Last night was a bad night.

But I’m determined to make tomorrow a better day.

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Update

And it is a better day. I struck out early without my partner and lacking a appropriate sidekick, I forwent my daily walk in the ministry for the mundanity of vehicle maintenance.

Her midday arousal did come with some negative energy, but a fine lunch and a visit to the art supply store seems to have restored vitality and sanity. Maybe she just needed some retail therapy?

She did comment that this is the first day in nearly three weeks that she is feeling near normal again.

And her and mom kissed and made up. Good for her. I won't hold my breath for the apology.

I leave you not in sorrow, but in solemn hope.

WIWL

Dangerous thought, this.

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#essay #memoir #journal #100DaysToOffload #writing #depression

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