A Letter

Dear All the Ones I Love Most,

This is for you.

I don’t like being this way. I promise you I despise being the owner of a chemically faulty and diseased brain. I don’t like skipping parties because I can’t take my pajamas off for the third day in a row. I don’t like watching you walk out the door, wondering if this time, if this day’s long crying spell, will be enough for you not to come back.

I don’t like being this way.
A way in which makes you look at me like I am only the shell of the person you love.
And a lot of the time I am.

I hate being a bad wife.
The wife who can’t grocery shop for the second month in a row or remember the last time I cooked a real meal. But sometimes it’s just all too much – this business of existing in a world where there are things to be done. I’d put on make up for you, but the tears would only wash it away. I’d turn off the tears for you, even just for an afternoon, but I don’t have control of the faucet.

I hate being a bad friend.
The friend who at the last minute can't come to your party because I can't quit crying long enough to put on my shoes. The friend who can't smile and eat popcorn and laugh at your jokes. But sometimes it’s just all too much – this business of existing in a world where there are expectation that can’t be met.  

I don’t like napping out of desperation and going to bed as soon as the sun goes down. 

I know you say you miss spending time with me, but I miss spending time with me too. The time before depression turned me into an empty shell with a hollow sadness behind my eyes – the same eyes you used to call beautiful. There is nothing beautiful about being dead behind the eyes. When I look in the mirror I know this all too well.

I know it’s hard for you to understand how I could not want to go for a walk on a beautiful day, or eat at my favorite restaurant, or see a movie.

I wish I had a better way to help you understand than this:

Depression sucks the spark from your eyes and the joy from you heart. It steals your ability to find pleasure in all things big or small. The things you love have lost their meaning. No pleasure. No wonder. No curiosity. No delight. Nothing but a hallow shell empty of what you used to love most in the world.

I know you hate it.
I hate it too.
I bet I hate it more than you.

It breaks my heart to see the disappointment in your eyes, the disappointment of who, in that moment, I have become – someone you may still love but don’t like very much.

Please know it is not that I don’t want to spend time with you. I withdrawal because it is safer. I don’t want to disappoint you that I am not capable of having fun, of enjoying our meal, of laughing at your stories, or smiling simply because I love you.

I do still love you. Each and every one of you. Depression just makes it hard for me to show you, or prove to you how dear you are to me. I don't blame you if you don't feel loved when I shut myself in a room and cry. But it's not you.

It's between me and the depression beast. We are at war.

I promise I am fighting for you.
I will call my doctor.
I will swallow my pills.
I won't give up.

One day, soon, it will pass.

And I will take off my pajamas and we'll go for that walk.

I hope you can wait. 

All my love,
-Bacon


Until next time...