Becoming the albatross
You always think you’ll be the exception until you’re not.
Several times on this blog I’ve attempted to describe what living with chronic depression is like but it’s never felt adequate. I’ve talked about how insidious it can be, how much it hurts you and those around you. What I haven’t written about, or have been scared to write about, is just what that depression has cost me in my personal life–mostly because it’s messy, chaotic and raw. Up until the past few weeks, my life has been in constant flux. Looking for apartments in San Luis Obispo, signing contracts and leases, setting things up at my new job, renting uhauls and towing all of my belongings. It’s easy to focus on everything else when everything else keeps happening–but now I’ve been living in California for almost a month now and am (mostly) settled in and finding myself with no choice but to feel the feelings as they come flooding towards me. It’s impossible to ignore the feelings when I look around my apartment, and there’s no more us–just a “me”...
While it’s a common thing, nobody really likes talking about “divorce” because it still feels largely negative; like, just the act of talking about it means you’re giving up or broken or a failure. And I feel all of those things because I do feel broken. I do feel as if I failed in my marriage.
It was never supposed to turn out this way
When you start out in a marriage you think in terms of bright future: building your family, your home together and you imagine what it’ll be like. And any reasonable person recognizes that not everything is going to go smoothly–that sometimes it pours more often than it shines. What you don’t expect is for it to flood.
That ever nebulous depression that my (second?) therapist diagnosed me with had me disconnected; untethered. I could come off as if I didn’t care: about my partner, my friends, my family as a whole and even myself. It’s one thing when it’s checked at an early stage, where at least you can mitigate its effects. But much like cancer, when it’s so far advanced it wreaks havoc on you and clouds your daily life and every interaction. You become the obstacle in your marriage–the dead albatross hanging around their neck that is weighing them down.
The most painful part is when you realize that you did this. That you were the dead weight without even realizing it. The person you promised to love and care for? You were getting in the way of their happiness when you wanted to be their happiness.
I wish I could love you more than I hate myself.
In this moment where there’s lots of space and time for me, I recognize that there still is a lot of love between us. That, in spite of the pain and havoc that’s been caused, you both still root for each other. Even from afar. Even reluctantly. In those silent moments when I’m walking my dog and we discover a new park, or see a cool restaurant or building, there’s that moment where I start to think, “she’s gonna like this…” or “ooh, we need to come back here”. Then I feel that pang of hollowness in my chest when the realization sets in…
Oh. Right. It’s just me now. No more sharing.
Maybe I’m rationalizing things. Maybe I’m offloading random disconnected thoughts. Maybe I’m trying to make sense of it all. Maybe this is all the catholic boy in me who’s leaning into the thing he knows best: guilt. Or maybe I’m just writing this so I don’t have to answer any awkward questions.
Who the hell knows?
I won’t pretend to speak for anyone else but me. Every relationship is experienced from multiple perspectives and I for damn sure am pretty slow when it comes to emotional understanding. But I’ve read that the pain you feel in those moments is a sign of a life that was well loved and if nothing else I’m grateful that, for a moment, I was lucky to be loved by someone. And even when it hurts, I’m happy to have that space in my soul.
