Birthday Weekend: Part III

Saturday was a bit better than Friday. The hubby and I went to the gym and exercised for 45 minutes (30 cardio, 15 weight training). I was pretty pumped because I’d never been able to do 30 straight minutes of cardio in my life. (You’re talking to the girl who always got picked last for teams in elementary school.)

After the gym, I ate a snack and jumped from 150 mg to 200 mg on Lamictal. The jumped knocked me for a loop. I immediately fell asleep for the rest of the afternoon into the evening. I woke up in time for us to get to TGIFriday’s for dinner. At 10 o’clock. We hopped in the car and drove to Applebee’s for dessert at 11:30. We didn’t get home until well after midnight. By this point, my husband was really depressed. From his POV, nothing went right for my birthday: he didn’t me give a cake, a card, or a present. *shrugs* A cake would have been nice, but my husband being around is much nicer.

Saturday’s mood weaved its way into Sunday. We were to be inducted as church members at the morning service, but the hubby developed a migraine at 8 a.m. I called the church secretary at home and notified her that we wouldn’t be able to make it and she cheerfully wished him well and said that we could join in two weeks with other new members. He woke up around 1 in the afternoon and moped around all day, dwelling on Friday and the absence of the cake, card, and present. I kept an upbeat spirit, trying to cheer him up, but he insisted on beating himself up.

Although I struggle with depression, sometimes it’s even hard for me to truly sympathize with my husband in his depression. It’s hypocritical, I know. He’s so sweet, loving, and supportive when I’m depressed, but when he is, I try to employ the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” tactic. I never liked that done to me so what gives me the right to do it to my husband when he’s legitimately depressed?

I try not to. I try to catch myself and empathize with him where he is. I try to be patient, I try to love him and encourage him, but sometimes I feel like he’s stuck in this narrow hole and he doesn’t want to budge.

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

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2 Comments

  1. Gianna said,

    February 8, 2007 at 9:11 am

    Oh my, I completely relate to the lack of empathy for the husband whenever he’s down. Why is it we think our depression is so much more important? I have a diagnosis…he doesn’t…but isn’t that just a bunch of crap? Again….hypocritical since I am anti-label, at least in theory…but I guess it’s that internal stigma thing going on. My suffering is more real because I’m diagnosed with a mental illness. Intellectually I believe that all human suffering is equal. It’s all a matter of relativity. Nonetheless…oh poor me.

  2. March 1, 2007 at 1:53 pm

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