New Reality

My name is Phil, and I live with depression.

When I began my recovery from the black world of depression I did not know that recovery was even possible. I doubted that my daily experience could ever change. In a way, I didn’t want it to. I did not want to get better. My life, and my everyday occurrences had been organized around my depression. I knew what to expect, how to react, and was comfortable in my environment. None of this means I was happy, but when you know misery, or emptiness, it is amazing how familiar and ordinary that can be.

I am currently re-watching one of my favorite television shows, House MD. Dr. Gregory House has a pain problem, and as an extension of that, a pain medication problem: he is addicted to Vicodin. Throughout all of the 8 seasons, but primarily in the first three, House’s narcotic addiction is a constant source of trouble, discussion, and explanation. Is he an addict? Should he stop taking Vicodin? How does it affect him? Does he need it? The show makes a pretty strong case for the physical pain House endures, but never really indicates exactly how much of House is drugs, or just personality. Either way, House refuses to change anything. He admits he takes too much Vicodin regularly, but the bottom is line is that ever since his infarction, he has defined his life by his pain and his relief of that pain. He recognizes that it isn’t a perfect situation, and abusing the narcotics or not, he isn’t happy. Rehab and physical therapy is a door to a healthier life, but House cannot (or will not) do the work to change. He is comfortable in his misery. I was Dr. House: comfortable in my misery.

But, as I have written about, I sought and found change. It took me over a year and a half of daily work and weekly meetings with my therapist, but by all accounts I have emerged from my depression. Medication and a fundamental shift in how I think about the world has brought me into the light. Then, about two months ago, my life altered significantly, nearly destroying all the progress I have made. I’ve been waiting for my newfound clarity to fog up, for my positive equilibrium to shift negatively. For all the lights to go out. But they haven’t. My recovery is solid. I have found a new reality, and fortunately reality rarely changes. Circumstances change, people come and go, growth and learning take place, but reality is constant. Mostly. I was born and lived under a certain reality. Somewhere around middle school my reality changed into depression. Last year, my reality changed again, out of depression, and into this newness of life I have been enjoying.

And all of that was threatened.

My wife left me. Legally, we are still married, but when she packs all her things, moves nearly 4500 miles east and eight hours into the future, the marriage is pretty much over. I could have gone with her, but following a spouse who is leaving the marriage seemed like the wrong thing to do. Our life, everything we had built over three and half years of marriage was here. Our life was not across an ocean and in a different world. The leaving happened abruptly. I was not ready: physically emotionally mentally psychologically. I had barely emerged from my darkness, and my wife grabbed her opportunity to seize her dreams and leave me behind. I scrambled madly, if only to ensure my own survival. Every plan, every expectation I had for my recovery had to be scrapped, or at best, reworked. Suddenly, I had to find a job. That I was not really ready for a job was beside the point: if I wanted housing and food, I needed employment. I needed companionship most of all, but fortunately I had already adopted a dog. In lieu of a wife, my puppy was all I could count on. At the last minute, I got a job. In between begging my wife to stay, trying to rationalize the sudden end of a marriage, and keeping up appearances for family and friends, I nearly imploded. Once or twice I got close.

Hannah flew away on May the 11th, 2013. We were married on January the 3rd, 2010. My marriage lasted 1,225 days. The fiction we tell friends and family is that this is merely a separation, a time to reevaluate who we are and what we want. The truth is we are never going to be anything other than friends.

Today I vacuumed the apartment, washed dishes, dusted, and tidied up the place. I cleaned the bathroom, changed towels on the racks and sheets on the bed. I swept floors. I had done none of these things since Hannah left. I know, gross to normal people, normal to depressed people. All this time, a little over a month, two things were constant in my head. One, I was not entirely certain I was not going to implode. I felt weak, devastated, lost, unsure of who I was, or what I should do with myself. I’ve been unusually depressed, angry, and numb. Two, I wasn’t convinced that it really was over. I thought Hannah would see the error of her ways and come back. I thought she needed this marriage, or me, or something bad enough to realize her mistake and return to start healing. She didn’t. If anything, she seems to be blossoming and growing in ways she and I never thought she could. She is better off where she is. Without me. And that was something I did not want to admit. Could not realize. Was too painful to face. I did not think I would survive, and everything around me was put on hold until I knew which way the world would fall. Why bother washing dishes if you are going to collapse into a dark depression? Losing a wife and facing a cold, scary world in the space of about a week and a half was about the hardest trial I could have endured (short of a close friend or family member dying at the same time). The surprise is that nothing fell. I covered my head and dove for cover, but the bomb was a dud.

I’ve been sick for several weeks now. General cold symptoms mixed with body aches and pains and psychological turmoil to create a vicious sinus infection and exhaustion. Middle of last week I stopped in my tracks, unable to go on. I could not work, I could not eat, I could barely sleep, and only then with a combination of drugs. But, this time I knew what to do: I got help. This time, mostly medical. A doctor checked me out, prescribed rest and antibiotics. I got both. This morning I woke feeling better than I have in a long time, physically and emotionally, and I knew what I had to do: embrace my new reality.

No wife was going to come back to nurse me to health or help with life. All I had was myself. And though I could scarcely believe it, I was strong enough to meet that challenge. I cleaned up my apartment. I washed my dirty dishes. I vacuumed my dirty floors. I dusted and swept. I made my environment livable again. Neither my depression nor my mangled personal life could hold me back.

My new reality, my restructured life is not fantasy, a cruel joke, or a drug induced dream. It is real. I can face what life can bring, and I can endure. I can rise above. Just me and my dog, my cute little Cordy.

I can live.