Hope, wounded puppy

20 Apr

I know a lot about depression. Kyle was diagnosed in 2003, right after our wedding and honeymoon. It was his first episode. I can still see him peering into Canyon de Chelly from one of the National Park’s viewpoints, his damaged soul grasping for answers, desperate for a glimmer of happiness, knowing his behavior was ruining our honeymoon, destroying his sleeping patterns and his sexual cravings. He tried. He tried so very hard. And I tried with him, rummaging through the cold and flu medicine aisle at the local Arizona Safeway, buying up anything to do with depression, though it was over the counter, hoping for a temporary miracle that would redeem our honeymoon, not wreck it entirely. But that was before we knew it was an illness, one that would require of us more strength, energy, consistent effort and quantities of hope that I didn’t even think could be manufactured in one’s body.

Even when I was about to leave Kyle or contemplated ending our relationship, the hope reared up, like a wounded puppy, and I attended to it with a mix of mother, nurse, armchair psychologist and raving lunatic. I had to match his behavior with in-kind sometimes. And I needed to vent now and again. Still do.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: