I Know You Have a Mental Illness. But I Am Only Human

I get it. I do understand.

Each day is a struggle for you to get out of bed, let alone wash the dishes or do the laundry. It’s been two years since you cooked a meal or drove the kids to school or danced with me or held me during the night.

You are consumed by depression.

You hate feeling this way. You hate being stuck on the couch. You hate not going outside. You hate how none of your treatments have helped. You hate how much weight you’ve gained from the meds, how no one calls you, how shitty you feel, how much guilt you feel for how little you can give to our marriage.

You are smothered by the central paradox: To get better you must get out of bed, but to get out bed you must get better.

The central paradox: To get better you must get out of bed, but to get out of bed you must get better.

You didn’t ask to be depressed. It’s not your fault.

So I do everything. I help the kids with their homework. I take them to soccer. I sign the permission slips and I pay the bills. I cook the meals and clean up the kitchen and take out the garbage. I drive you to your appointments. I work and I work and I encourage you and I pray for you and never judge you and read about new therapies. I battle the stigma and cling to the hope that someday you will get better because without hope you and I and our family are doomed.

But, honey, I am only human. . . .