Mental illness has taken a lot from me. It has taken a lot from my family. But I didn't realize until yesterday just how much.
Andrea doesn't look at me anymore.
Well, she does, but not like she used to, and not every time she walks past me like we used to. We exist. She called us roommates. And I guess we are.
It has taken what was once untouchable, powerful, and indestructible - our relationship, and whittled it down to a barely recognizable state. I miss us. I guess I always had the thought that we would make it through everything, that nothing was a big deal. I had that much faith in us. I still have faith in us - but it's going to require a lot more fixing and a lot more effort than I originally thought.
It's a double edged sword in a way. A stronger relationship with her would help get me out of this, but being waist-deep in the thick of depression has strained our relationship so much it can't help it anymore.
Does she even look forward to me coming home anymore, save for the relief from the kids?
Does she even want to snuggle with me at night?
I still feel the same powerful feelings for her, but I guess like all things with me right now - they are muted and quieted as a result of my medication. I would do anything to make her happy, and I hope she sees that.
Lately though, I feel like nothing I do will ever be good enough. Nothing will be as good as her life could have been with the boys, in the green house, with Dave. That's a weight I will carry for a long time. It's my own burden, and my own doing. But I will not stop trying to be good enough.
My biggest fear is that she regrets it now.