“In sickness and in health.”
Those are the words that we vowed; we pledged, we promised and swore to the Lord and each other when we took one another’s hand in marriage.
I don’t think that anyone goes into a marriage expecting the sickness part, but it was what we, as husband and wife were supposed to do, and I was prepared to do it, nonetheless.
I was.
He wasn’t.
Up until my pregnancy with our first child together, my bouts of depression had been my dirty little secret – my mental illness. It was something that I was able to manage for the most part; going on medication when I felt it was necessary, but foolishly, if not stubbornly, not sticking with treatment, because as my psychiatrist often jokes, “You think that you know better than doctors.” (Side note: I still think that.)
During the third or fourth month of my pregnancy, I could feel myself slipping. My doctor prescribed an anti-depressant, which again, I took sporadically; still not opening up about my condition with my husband. Instead, I waited until after the baby was born and disguised it as post-partum depression; thinking that he’d be able to handle it if he thought it was something that was only temporary. He couldn’t.
In the weeks and months that followed he became increasingly frustrated. He didn’t understand why I wouldn’t just “snap out of it,” “walk it 0ff,” and any other adage he could think of that expressed his need for me to “get over it.”
I tried to make him understand, but he was either unable or unwilling to accept that I had an actual problem; that it wasn’t all in my head. Then I became frustrated. And that frustration — coupled with a lot of stress — sent me deeper and deeper into my depression. My thoughts became darker and darker, but I couldn’t even force myself to seek help; let alone take my medication. Practically every week I would have thoughts of suicide that I only shared with him. But to those thoughts, he admittedly said to himself, ‘Here we go again.’
Here we go again?!
It hurt me to the core that he could feel that way. About me. About the mother of his children. About his wife, to whom he made that vow.
“In sickness and in health.”
But there I was — sick and alone in my fight against a disease that was very real to me, whether he thought so or not.
Somewhere along the way I had a breakthrough. It was as though I’d awaken from a Sleeping Beauty type sleep and suddenly felt alive again. Invigorated, I stayed up for hours and hours, trying to take advantage of every second in the day; making up for all the time I had lost. Strangely, the less sleep I had, the better I’d feel; the more productive I’d become; the sweeter I’d treat my husband. But there was also a dark side to my invigorated self that led me to spend more time away from home, doing things I’d never even think to do before. I was getting tattoos, spending money that I knew I didn’t have, and making new male “friends.” Instead of slipping deeper and deeper into depression, I was becoming more and more out of control, and I loved it.
Later, what I thought would be a routine visit to my doctor ended with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, which meant even more things to explain to my husband; more things to frustrate him.
For months we went back and forth between my episodes of mania and depression; neither of which he understood. To him the two were distinguished by the times he liked me, and the times he didn’t. For me, it was the same.
There we were; neither of us liking me half the time.
Unable to handle it — it being me — anymore, he suggested that I find a place where I could go away for a while, because, isn’t that what “crazy” people are supposed to do?
After more and more dangerous behavior and deeper, darker depressions, I couldn’t handle it — it being me — anymore either. It took everything in me to force myself to finally seek the help I needed.
I found a psychiatrist, and together we mapped out a plan to get me to a place where I could live my life “normally” again; or at least close to it. Step 1 of that plan: finding the right combination of medication. Step 2: Telling my husband about all of the things I had done in my manic state; more specifically, about my male “friends.”
January 3, 2013. I’ll never forget that date. My husband and I walked into my psychiatrist’s office, both of us thinking that she was simply going to talk to him about the ways that he could help me in my treatment. He looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat because he had never been in one of “these places” before. As soon as we were all settled, my doctor looked to me and asked me if I was ready to tell him what I had to say. I looked at her, absolutely confused. Were we really doing this right now?
She asked my husband to step out of the room and looked me in the eyes. “You have to tell him. He has the right to know.”
She was right, but I wasn’t ready.
She called him back in and instead of having me divulge my secret, she explained to him what bipolar disorder entailed. She explained how intense my impulses would be; almost uncontrollable. She gave him examples: spending a lot of money, having sex with strangers…. We ended with her handing him my prescription and giving him the responsibility of making sure that I took the medication daily.
When he came out of the pharmacy with my medication, he got into the car with a strange look on his face; as if he was trying to put puzzle pieces together.
“Something she said….,” he started as we pulled out of the parking lot. “She talked about having sex with other men. Is that something I need to worry about?”
I didn’t want to answer, but my silence told him everything he needed to know.
Over the course of the next several months — through our separation — we argued to the point where we were both too tired to argue anymore; with me maintaining that I wasn’t in control of my behavior, any more than I was able to control the suicidal thoughts I had while suffering from depression. It was like a nightmare where I had an evil twin who did all of these horrible things, but I was the one getting punished for it.
All he saw was betrayal; which I can understand. I broke a vow. But what he didn’t understand was that regardless of how bad our marriage was at times, or how frustrated or hurt I was by his unwillingness (or inability) to understand what I was going through, never in a million years did I want to hurt him. He was my husband and I was his wife…til death do us part, right? Too many vows had been broken to keep us together though.
We’ve since come to a good place in our relationship; co-parenting to the best of our ability. He still doesn’t understand my struggle; how much it takes for me to get out of bed most mornings; not knowing which days I’ll have the will or the energy to just do. I’m not sure that he’ll ever understand, but I’ve resolved to stop driving myself insane (pun unintended) trying to make him. It is what it is.
My mental illness may have ruined my relationship, but I refuse to let it ruin me. After my marriage ended I made another vow — to follow through my treatment plan in order to maintain my sanity…as sane as one can be with four kids and a dog. I may be alone in this fight — this fight against this very real condition — but at least I’m fighting. At least I’m committed.
Words by Dana Hart
