I will not deny it, things haven’t been so easy as of late. I seem to have slipped into some kind of comfortable sadness; some form of loving loneliness. This is how things used to be, not how they should be now. But I suppose that is the artistry of depression, it cares not for circumstance.
I really should be grateful, thankful. All of the self-help books push gratitude as the holy prescription; as if somehow, if you list out twenty things a day you are indebted to, the weighted slippers begin to fall off, and you walk out of the muck. I wrote out ten things, twelve days ago, and I haven’t had the heart to do it again. I yell and scream and kick holes in the walls of our new home. I dig and claw and infest my way under my husband’s skin, until he turns his back on me. I cry and plead and begin to care, but really I am silent and stoic and showing no emotion. I don’t need him becomes I don’t want him. And just like that, every other day, depression pushes me once again, to ‘alone.’
My husband will drive off and I will fall to the floor crying. I will lay there, atop cat litter, and curl into the pain. I will listen to the garage door closing outside, believing that I can tell my husband, telepathically, to come back. But he won’t hear me. And I won’t bother getting up trying to stop him. The damage is done, he hates you. And I will believe it. And I will go upstairs and find the knife. And the fucking pain builds and builds and rips and tears and shreds and pushes and pushes and PUSHES …. until. Sigh. I will pick up that knife and run it along my forehead. Softly, at first. Like meeting an old lover, unsure of the consequences. I haven’t seen you in so long. It stings. I haven’t felt you in so long. Harder. No blood, not too deep. Just enough to know it’s there. My husband cannot know. He won’t understand. I turn the knife over and bang it against my head. One. Two. Three. I continue until there is a throb. And then I stop, and I get up, and I find my phone.
“I am sorry. Sorry that I made you hate me. I’m ashamed, embarrassed. Please forgive me for being so cruel.” I hit send and pray that my husband excuses my antics. I have everything I ever dreamed of having. I should be thankful. I should be grateful. And yet …
Woven inside of me, are things of evil. The dark friend visits me again, until I realize that he never left; until I realize, that he is never leaving. So many things I would like to do, so many things I would like to say. They tell me to fight, tell me that things will get better, easier, that my dark friend will, one day, go away. Oh, how beautiful it must be for them, to fight and win. How envious I am of their power and conviction. I know they truly believe in what they are saying; sharing their gospel, feeling a responsibility to save others the way they were saved. They do not realize that some of us, well, some of us are cursed to carry this burden until our dying breaths. We do not waste our time believing in the fairy tale of “remission.” No, we focus on the ever heavy task of trying to learn how to live with it.
In the end, I suppose that I am in fact thankful. I am still alive, still breathing.I am thankful that I still have the opportunity to continue learning to live with this dark friend. And for a husband that stays with us both.