I mentioned my history of depression way back when I started this blog and have referred to it a couple of times since then, but I haven’t gotten into it because I haven’t been depressed or on medication since 2011 or the end of 2010, I don’t quite recall.
I told Mr. Jones fairly quickly about my diagnosis and history with medication, because he needed to know and I needed to make sure he was ok with it. He understood and is fine with it. Around the middle of December, I started feeling…different. I knew immediately that it was coming back and I was infuriated (how could I be depressed? I was getting laid and falling in love!) and went into denial. I waited, hoping that I was mistaken and that my ennui and sadness were caused by the weather or something. At some point I recall talking to Mr. Jones and telling him that I felt funny and that I would probably end up going to the doctor and get back on the meds. We discussed it a bit and he said he supported me in whatever I needed to do to feel healthy.
In the Shadows
By the end of the year, I had stopped working out, stopped writing, stopped reading. The only time I was happy was when I was with Mr. Jones or the Terminator. But I realized I was truly in love with Mr. Jones. ate one night when I woke up to go to the bathroom and he popped into my head, along with all the warm fuzzy feelings, and the certainty that it was serious, and what that meant and then… I had a full-blown panic attack. My heart started racing, I started sweating and trembling, my brain was going a mile a minute, until I caught it and stopped myself. I took deep breaths, calmed myself, and splashed cold water on my face until I eventually calmed down. Then I laughed about it. If the thought of true love gave me panic attacks, I was more emotionally fucked up than I imagined.
Late one night I woke up to go to the bathroom and Mr. Jones popped into my thoughts, along with all the warm fuzzy feelings, the certainty that it was serious, and what that meant and then… I had a full-blown panic attack. My heart started racing, I started sweating and trembling, my brain was going a mile a minute and my thoughts were speeding out of control. Then I caught it. “Get a grip, woman,” I told myself. I took deep breaths, calmed myself, and splashed cold water on my face until I eventually calmed down. Then I laughed about it. If the thought of true love gave me panic attacks, I was more emotionally fucked up than I imagined.
Finally last month I got back on medication, and I felt a slight improvement immediately, but the drug has to accumulate in your body before an appreciable improvement happens. I am improving but it is sloooow. I hate the wait.
When I mentioned all this to my best friend, she asked me what triggered the descent (there is usually a trigger). I thought and thought, but couldn’t come up with anything. A few days later, when I decided to clean out my email inboxes and get organized for working again, I discovered that I stopped working and doing research around the time of my last tryst with the Terminator. Then it all became clear.
At that December meeting with Terminator I told him about Mr. Jones and that it would be our last time together. Deep down, I had wanted him to fight for me, to tell me he loved me and wanted me exclusively; to claim me and ask for a relationship.
I had wanted him to act on the emotions that his body conveyed to me in the throes of passion. I wanted this even though I love Mr. Jones, and even though I know Terminator is in no way monogamous. It was completely unreasonable, but that is how I felt. And of course, he didn’t say anything of the kind. So I was hit with the reality that we were over (or soon would be). And letting him go (emotionally) sent me over the edge.
When I realized this, it made perfect sense. It was a pattern. My entire life, whenever a relationship ended I fall into a deep, deep depression. It stems from my father’s abandonment, an event that scarred me so deeply that here I am, forty years after the fact, suffering. I am always falling hard for the guy who can’t or won’t love me the way I deserve, like my father. On some level it seems that I’ve been hoping to change the ending to that story and have the unavailable guy (and all of them were) open his heart and love me the way that I’ve always wanted to be loved; to finally heal that wound and erase the rejection that my father scorched into my soul. It has taken me all this time to realize emotionally that all this time I’ve been falling for the same type of man in the hopes that this time he will choose me, stay with me, love me. I’ve been a broken record for 40 years…but how beautiful, how fortunate that I’ve finally figured it out, and am breaking the pattern.
I’m letting it go, to love the man does love me deeply and is proving it every day and in every way.
I’m fully ready to do that now. And I will be lighting a candle with the tattered remains of my Catholicism, to the patron saint of broken-hearted little girls.
Image: original source unknown. I do not own image or copyright.