{"id":4838,"date":"2016-07-18T08:00:58","date_gmt":"2016-07-18T02:30:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/13.201.39.237\/?p=4838"},"modified":"2016-07-18T08:00:58","modified_gmt":"2016-07-18T02:30:58","slug":"marriage-depression-therapy-relationships","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/13.207.105.184\/?p=4838","title":{"rendered":"He Was Depressed, I Needed Therapy. How Was Our Marriage Going to Survive?"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

T<\/span>here is a picture of the two of us, taken eleven years ago. It was the week after our wedding and we\u2019d taken a day trip to Ponmudi, a little hill station in <\/p>Kerala<\/span><\/a>. His face is tucked into the back of my head and his arms are wrapped tightly around me. He sports a grin that is one part wicked and two parts crazed with happiness. I am laughing so hard my plump cheeks, tinted by a fresh bridal glow, are exploding and reducing my eyes to slits. <\/span>\n\nTry as I may, I am unable to recall what elicited this perfect moment. I long to reach out to those two people we once were and steal their blissful oblivion of all that is to come. Surely they deserve to know how much it will take to survive a <\/span>marriage<\/span><\/a> that has weathered down in a decade. <\/span>\n\nThe past year has been the hardest; ten years of togetherness that swelled into a dark period where we became the weakest versions of ourselves. I moved back to India from the Gulf and we were dealing with the transitory period of a long-distance marriage. Spontaneous as the life-changing decision had been, we did chalk out a contingency plan. He negotiated a flexible work schedule so he could shuttle back and forth. I took up <\/span>freelance<\/span><\/a> writing work to be able to follow my passion and give our daughter more attention. <\/span>\n\nSurely and slowly, the plan began crumbling. His heart was breaking every time he had to say goodbye to his little girl. I got too caught up with navigating life in <\/span>Bangalore<\/span><\/a>, a city I loved but had never lived in before. Both of us were submerged in the turmoil that comes with making brave choices, but somehow we couldn\u2019t intersect and share our pain.<\/span>\n

We had to build a solid support system \u2013 people who could help him cope when I wasn\u2019t around.<\/blockquote>\nThe distance began taking its toll. Our <\/span>conversations<\/span><\/a> became mere updates, growing shorter each day. He\u2019d always been the stronger one in the relationship and I assumed that everything was alright, ignoring the growing detachment in his voice. <\/span>\n\nI didn\u2019t see the signs. I should have. <\/span>\n\nIt began simply enough; he couldn\u2019t get out of bed and spent most of his waking hours in silence or crying. He experienced sudden <\/span>panic<\/span><\/a> attacks. I held his hand whenever I could, listened to the words, \u201cI don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong with me.\u201d countless times, wiped his tears, and told him that it would all get better, even though my insides quivered with doubt. <\/span>\n\nAfter meeting a few therapists, he found one who made him feel comfortable enough and began going for fortnightly sessions. Courageous enough to face his <\/span>mental-health<\/span><\/a> issues head on, he spoke to friends and family about what he was going through, trying to collect fragments of assurance. We had to build a solid support system \u2013 people who could help him cope when I wasn\u2019t around. <\/span>\n\nAs he was tending to his mind, I had to balance an important part of the equation \u2013 our <\/span>daughter<\/span><\/a>. As a perceptive four-year old, she was witnessing our growing fragility. While I was always the neurotic mother stressing about her development and behaviour, he brought a calmness that gave her the freedom to just be. But now, his wrecked nerves caused him to snap at her involuntarily. Her face wilted every time I cajoled her to leave him alone. <\/span>\n
Love wasn\u2019t sufficient to sustain us and all I could manage to feel for him was concern.<\/blockquote>\nThe little routines we\u2019d worked so hard to establish as <\/span>parents<\/span><\/a> began unraveling. I usually looked forward to him taking over the tasks of getting her ready for school, taking her out in the evenings and putting her to bed. But now I couldn\u2019t depend on him. <\/span>\n\nI became the reluctant ant carrying an unreasonable weight on my tiny dwindled legs \u2013 the pressure to protect our daughter\u2019s formative experiences, to be careful that my actions didn\u2019t impede his progress, to set aside my own vulnerabilities because falling apart at this time was not an option. <\/span>Love<\/span><\/a> wasn\u2019t sufficient to sustain us and all I could manage to feel for him was concern. My empathy for his well-being began morphing into a dark affirmation \u2013 I didn\u2019t deserve this. <\/span>\n\nI found new ways to resent him. Sifting through sunken memories, I unearthed every single instance where he\u2019d let me down; the countless times he\u2019d put his <\/span>friends<\/span><\/a> before me, how insensitive he was when I was drowning in postpartum misery, the nights he\u2019d walked out after we fought leaving me to worry about whether he\u2019d come back. Clutching on to his imperfections became a coping mechanism. <\/span>\n\nMy rage snowballed. I hated that he could sleep whenever he wanted to because his body needed the rest, that I could not get mad at him and risk inciting a panic attack, that I had to be the intermediary between him and his parents because they weren\u2019t ready to accept that their son had a mental health problem. So while I was good enough to keep the words within, I <\/span>punished<\/span><\/a> him with cold silences and subtle reminders of how difficult he was being. <\/span>\n
His struggle to do better each day wasn\u2019t enough for me. It was too slow, uncertain, and exasperating.<\/blockquote>\nAt the peak of my despicability, I concluded that he was using his <\/span>depression<\/span><\/a> to punish me by shoving me into a corner to pick up the pieces of something he\u2019d broken. Basically, I\u2019d set out to gather as much evidence that could substantiate what a failure our marriage was turning out to be. <\/span>\n\nHis struggle to do better each day wasn\u2019t enough for me. It was too slow, uncertain, and exasperating. We became a despondent pair, bound merely by shared parenting responsibilities, family, finances and a rusted <\/span>romance<\/span><\/a>. And while I realised that my passive-aggressive cruelty was destroying us as a couple, I couldn\u2019t fathom what it was doing to me.<\/span>\n\nIt hit me one night when I was sitting alone with my <\/span>laptop<\/span><\/a>, my eyes hurting from staring at the bright screen for too long, listening to \u201cArrival of the Birds\u201d by The Cinematic Orchestra. As the melancholic symphony of a piano, harp, and violin engulfed me, I broke. The festering anger and sorrow boiled into tears, relieving the pressure of holding back for too long. I wept for the tragedy I\u2019d become, a miserable woman in her 30s who wanted so much out of life but could never quite figure where to get started. I wept for all the flotsam and jetsam of regrets that constantly buoyed about in my head. But mostly I wept for the realisation that I was as messed up as he was.<\/span>\n\nTo untangle ourselves from the clusterfuck we\u2019d created as two unhinged individuals, we began going for couple therapy. It felt ridiculous to expect a stranger to fix us. Where was she going to begin when even we couldn\u2019t map our gradual descent from marital bliss to <\/span>boredom<\/span><\/a> to strife? <\/span>\n
At the end of our first hour, it was clear that I needed individual therapy sessions as well.<\/blockquote>\nOur first session reminded me of the time I checked into a holistic centre and was made to stand bare naked in front a high-pressure hose spraying cold water. There we were, the two of us sitting on separate couches with our therapist nudging us along kindly with the tough but necessary questions. I\u2019d prepared myself to say enough to build a line of defence but she was good enough to sift through the lies I\u2019d been telling myself. At the end of our first hour, it was clear that I needed individual <\/span>therapy<\/span><\/a> sessions as well. <\/span>\n\nIt\u2019s a lot of work, especially when you\u2019ve been plastering cracks the whole time and now have to hurl a wrecking ball so you can build something that will last. We\u2019ve been in therapy for eight months and I\u2019d like to say we have come a long way but that would not be entirely right. I had to start letting go of hurt and self-pity; he had to begin believing in himself. At the root of all our <\/span>problems<\/span><\/a> was the simple fact that we\u2019d forgotten how to love ourselves. <\/span>\n\nBut there was one amazing thing we somehow accomplished despite all the nonsense we\u2019d put each other through over the years \u2013 we didn\u2019t forego \u201cus\u201d. Not because we needed each other or had a <\/span>child<\/span><\/a> together or were scared of never finding love again but because we weren\u2019t done. Not yet. <\/span>\n\nThe biggest lesson has been that falling apart saved us. Tottering at the edge of sanity was more torturous than stumbling. But moving on isn\u2019t the same as moving forward. \u00a0<\/span>\n
Without effort and forgiveness, it is difficult to want to stay.<\/blockquote>\nI no longer believe in the idea of happy or unhappy marriages or the notion that love is what separates them. Without effort and <\/span>forgiveness<\/span><\/a>, it is difficult to want to stay. We\u2019re making the conscious effort to communicate and build intimacy so we don\u2019t get lost in the tasks of raising our daughter. At times when I find myself plummeting into the \u201cIs this all worth it dilemma\u201d, I resurrect the little memories that do make us perfect \u2013 the excitement of moving into our first home and arguing over which couch to pick, the dozens of animals we rescued animals and shared grief when we couldn\u2019t save them, lazy weekends spent binge-watching <\/span>Scrubs<\/span><\/i>. <\/span>\n\nMaybe we\u2019ll make it another 10 years, maybe we won\u2019t. The ongoing catharsis that is intended to rewire the way we process <\/span>emotions<\/span><\/a> is grueling. For now we\u2019ll do what we can to bring back the happiness once shared in a photo taken on a cool afternoon amidst the grass.<\/span>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My husband couldn\u2019t get out of bed and spent most of his waking hours in silence or crying. He experienced panic attacks. Soon my empathy for him began morphing into a dark affirmation \u2013 I didn\u2019t deserve this. Then I realised I needed therapy too.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":350,"featured_media":4839,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[15],"tags":[559,18,224,21,707,22],"class_list":["post-4838","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-love-and-sex","tag-depression","tag-family","tag-love","tag-marriage","tag-mental-health","tag-relationships"],"yoast_head":"\nHe Was Depressed, I Needed Therapy. How Was Our Marriage Going to Survive?<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"My husband couldn\u2019t get out of bed and spent most of his waking hours in silence or crying. He experienced panic attacks. 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