We sit down in the living room to talk. Her in the recliner, and me on the couch. I can feel the distance between us and not just physically. This has been coming for a while but ... I still know how hard it will be. I know I need help. I know I can't do it alone. I know before that can happen I have to tell her exactly how depressed I am. I have to actually admit to her that I'm depressed at all.
I stare at my shoes, trying to form the words. Trying to admit my guilt, trying to admit my pain, trying to admit my condition. I manage a few half words, more grunts than syllables. My eyes fill with liquid, and I turn and lay on the couch and just sob, waiting for a comforting touch that I know isn't coming.
I hear a frustrated sigh and I just cry harder. After a few minutes, maybe hours, maybe days, I finally force out the words, muffled and deadened by the couch cushion my head's buried into "I am so depressed." I'd like to say it was a relief to finally say it, but it wasn't. It felt more like the last link to reality was slipping away. I fell into a primal painful cry. Waiting ... wanting that kind word, that comforting touch. Wanting my wife to cry with me, wanting her to take pity on me, wanting her to just lie to me and tell me everything would be all right. Just some acknowledgement she's even still in the room.
"I couldn't understand what you said."
I try to catch my breath, I try to suppress my sobbing and gasping. I try to find those words again. I can't even catch my breath to say them if I could find them. I'm so exhausted I'm barely conscious. I have no idea how long I've been in this state. I roll onto my back, I open my mouth to speak and am interrupted.
She's saying something, I hear her but I can't process it. I freeze her words in my mind for later. I force the words out of my mouth like vomit. They make me sick to hear them. "I am so very depressed!"
I tell her I need help. I tell her how most days I can barely muster up the energy to move, let alone take care of the kids while she's at work. I confess my sins, seeking absolution. I tell her how last week I struggled to feed the kids breakfast. I'd hand my three year old a box of cereal and let her feed herself. I told her how I'd feed my eleven month old son. He'd follow me into the kitchen crawling and I'd toss him a dinner roll from the food pantry, right there on the floor. Like he was a dog at the table begging for scraps. I tell her that my son tried to drink pine-sol and of my failure to realize he'd even gotten into the cabinet this immediately because I couldn't force myself to move from the couch. I tell her how embarrassed and humiliated I am. I tell her how I don't want to be like this. I ask her, I beg her for help.
I can't look her in the eye, I can't even look in her general direction. I'm ashamed. I think I'm broken. Quietly and calmly she tells me that she doesn't know if I really want help with my depression, or if I'm just trying to keep her from leaving. Her words I froze fall and shatter. I can hear them echoing in my brain. That's what she told me. She's leaving. She's taking the kids. I thought I was broken, now I know I am. I'm already in so much pain, I'm not sure I felt anything. But I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
I tell her I am serious, I do want help. I know it won't make a difference to her though. She tells me if that if I want help, I have to find it. If I can't take care of the kids, then I shouldn't be around the kids. She's right of course, it's my lack of ability to care for the kids that made me realize how far gone I was. I'm told I have to keep it together for a week so she can make arrangements. I offer her the house, of course she doesn't want it. I ask her for the slightest bit of help, she tells me to call my doctor and get medication. I tell her I don't want her to leave but there is no debate, there is no discussion. I know that at that moment, I am not a good parent, I am not a good husband, I'm not even sure I'm a good person.
I struggle through the next week. I see my doctor, he writes me a prescription. He warns me that with any anti-depressant there's certain side effects. The most common is increased risk of suicidal behavior. The pharmacist also mentions this. I try to tell my wife this, she mistakes it for a threat to kill myself if she leaves. I don't want her to feel that way. That's not what I meant at all. I tell her at the end of the week, I'm going to my parents for a while. I tell her she can leave or stay, I'll honor her request.
I left on Saturday. She left the house on Sunday. That was March, it's the week before Christmas now, and still the pain is unbearable.
This is my life now.
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