April 17, 2017
It wasn’t always this overwhelming since we tied the knot. I often felt sad, shed tears, and grappled with the notion of friendship. Our wedding was a psychological whirlwind; I overindulged in alcohol to numb my anxiety about being in the spotlight. Yet, I managed to push through. I completed my graduate studies while grappling with undiagnosed ADHD.
We enjoyed vacations together, even if my anxiety hindered the beginning of our trip to Ireland. However, I pulled myself together after a few days. We explored Rome not once but twice, fostered rescue dogs, and navigated class II and III rapids in our kayaks.
Then came the pregnancy, and everything unraveled. My manageable anxiety spiraled into severe depression and crippling anxiety. Medication provided temporary relief, but the cycle of decline returned multiple times. I even attended a day-treatment program. At times, my mental health overshadowed everything—my husband’s job, our children, and our marriage.
This reality is incredibly challenging for everyone involved. My husband had to take on multiple roles: single parent, cook, emotional support, and caretaker. Although I managed some responsibilities while he worked, the moment he walked through the door, he assumed control of the household. After a taxing day with the kids, I was often too exhausted to do anything but retreat to bed, leaving him to juggle parenting and household duties. The kids wanted his attention, but I needed him, so he often found himself watching mindless TV while he comforted me.
As The Great Comforter, he held me during my tears and defended me against the harsh judgments I hurled at myself during my darkest moments. I would say cruel things like, “I’m unlovable” or “I’m a terrible mother,” and I could sense the weight of my struggles pressing down on him. In those moments, I would reflect on how unfair it was to place this burden on him. “This isn’t a marriage,” I would lament, suggesting he would be better off without me. I even made threats of divorce, not out of a lack of love, but as a misguided act to relieve him of my emotional turmoil. All he could do was reassure me, “I love you. I love you.” Those words were his only defense.
The emotional toll on him was profound. He faced the daunting task of holding everything together while I spiraled. I remember calmly telling him one night after putting the kids to bed that my mental health issues would ultimately lead to our divorce. Though divorce was never on the table for us, due to our shared values and commitment, I tossed that statement at him, convinced it was rational at the moment. He had no one to confide in; how do you explain to friends that your spouse is struggling deeply while you’re trying to remain strong?
As he became The Great Comforter, I morphed into The Patient, needing constant care and vigilance. I was the one who had to be approached delicately, questioned about medications and doctor’s appointments, and, at times, the subject of worry regarding the potential hazards in our home. I felt a crippling sense of helplessness, fearing my husband would take our sons away from me, though he never threatened such a thing.
This dynamic fostered a dependent yet adversarial relationship. I relied on him for stability while simultaneously feeling resentment that I needed him so much. He loved me and thrived on being needed, yet there were moments he resented my inability to heal, my refusal to listen to reason.
Date nights became a distant dream. By the time he returned home, I was usually drained, and the thought of getting dressed felt like climbing a mountain because I believed I looked unappealing in everything. Instead, we salvaged our relationship through small outings. He would insist we go outside for walks, under the guise of improving my mental health. Initially, I resisted, but eventually, those walks became a lifeline for us.
We found solace in shared interests. During one particularly challenging withdrawal from medication that sent me into a deep pit of despair, we both read Bernard Cornwell’s gripping Saxon Stories, which transported us to another time and allowed us to bond over absurd jokes about battle axes and shield walls. These light-hearted moments provided a much-needed escape from the weight of my mental health struggles. It didn’t matter if it was a book, a TV show, or something else; we just needed a shared connection.
And that’s how we navigated through the storm. Silly jokes about swords kept us connected while I battled my mental anguish. Eventually, with patience and the right medication, I started to heal. Gradually, we shed our imposed roles and rediscovered ourselves. The moment we could, we prioritized a date night—just the two of us. Rekindling intimacy became a priority once it was possible, and we found our way back to each other.
So, how do you navigate marriage during a mental health crisis?
You don’t; you cling on with everything you have. You assume unexpected roles, grapple with resentment, strive for forgiveness, and wait for the storm to pass. You must have faith in your marriage, especially in tough times, and one partner needs to hold onto that belief—often the more stable one—until the clouds clear. Sharing something, even trivial like a book or a show, becomes essential. Above all, you need to believe in one another.
For those seeking additional information about managing mental health and fertility, websites like Hopkins Medicine’s Fertility Center offer excellent resources. If you’re curious about home insemination options, check out this guide on artificial insemination kits to learn more. For positivity practices, Intracervical Insemination is a valuable source.
In summary, marriage during a mental health crisis requires resilience, communication, and mutual support. While the journey is challenging, shared interests and belief in one another can pave the way to healing and connection.