My husband took my face in his hands this morning and told me he’s angry. “I’m mad because my strong, beautiful wife seems to be giving up.” And he cried.
For the record: My husband is a big boy. He’s 6’5″, 250+lbs or mostly muscle. He played football and wrestled in high school. He’s a Midwestern guy through and through. In our almost eight years together, I’ve seen him cry…less than five times? One of which was our wedding day. He’s soft, but not a crier.
It stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t realize my struggles were weighing so heavily on him. And…to be honest, on the worst days I’m convinced he wouldn’t care anyhow.
I didn’t think this week was that bad. I’m tired. But that’s partly starting school back up after Christmas break. I’ve been okay about taking my meds. And have counseling Friday morning.
Having a mental illness is lonely. One of the things you need to heal is people to talk to, a support system, but part of the illness is isolation. You feel like a burden, you think people don’t want to know, you feel stigmatized.
For as long as I can remember, or the last seven years at least, Nate has been my rock. We’ve seen some shit, been through some shit, been shit, in our time together. He’s the best man I know, and I can’t imagine how scary it is for him to see me like this.
When Nate and I met I was confident (outwardly, mostly, but also fairly confident internally), I knew what I wanted and went for it, I had a million things going on, but still made time for friends and socializing.
I’m not that girl anymore, and I don’t know if she’s lost forever, or just for now. But after this morning, it’s glaringly obvious I have to make ever more of an effort to get her back.