Now she’s the one shaking her head. “You don’t truly love me.”
Her words pierce my heart. She doesn’t understand how wrong she is.
I know who I am. A man who loves her more than anything.
Goddammit. “You’re mad at me for not believing what you say, but you won’t believe what I say, either. Courtney, I mean it. I do love you.”
“You love the woman who enjoys gingerbread lattes and wandering around the city.”
“Yes. That’s you.”
“Sometimes it’s me.”
“Your depression is notyou.”
“I can’t separate myself from my mental illness. It’s a part of me.”
“We’ll fix it,” I say. “We’ll get you healthy again. I have resources that you don’t. We can figure it out. Depression is a treatable illness.”
“You don’t understand. You think you can throw money at any problem and fix it, but it’s not like that. I told you, I tried. I tried so goddamn hard, believe me. I tried every drug they suggested, even though none of them worked and some of them had awful side effects.” There are tears in her lashes. “You know how exhausting it is to keep trying new treatments and having them fail? To have your hopes crushed over and over? I refuse to try any more drugs.”
“Therapy. It’s not generally covered under provincial healthcare and it can get expensive, but—”
“I’ve tried. I saw literally every counselor at the universities I attended.”
“Counselor. They probably weren’t psychologists with PhDs.”
“A couple of them were. And you know what? Talking about my problems isn’t helpful for me—it just makes me more depressed. Therapy was essentially a regularly-scheduled ugly cry session. I’m not kidding. It’s awful. I’ve even been told I’m too sick for therapy at times.”
“You just haven’t found the right therapist, and I—”
“You don’t get it.” She’s shaking. Her voice is shaking, too, but it’s still clear. “You really don’t get it. I’m the one who’s had to live through endless treatments that always fail. Not you.”
She’s right, of course. This is her life, her experience, but I refuse to accept that her problem cannot be fixed. It’s too painful for me to contemplate. She has to keep trying.
I take her hands in mine. She jerks away.
“You know when I finally got better the last two times?” she asks. “When I gave up on treatment. I told you that, didn’t I? When I gave up, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders—one less thing to worry about. Trying to get better was just too stressful.” She exhales unsteadily. “This time, I’m not going to try. I don’t need you to throw money at me and pay for more therapy. What I need is support. Compassion. But I know it’s ridiculous to expect any man to put up with my untreatable mental illness. It’s a one-sided relationship.”
“Once every five years.”
“Maybe this time it won’t go away.”
“Don’t say that. We’ll get through it together. I will be there for you. You don’t have to try any more anti-depressants, but there are other things—”
“I won’t let anyone give me an electric shock twice a week or drill a hole in my head to implant a pacemaker. There are limits to what I will try, and I’ve reached them.”
“You can’t give up on everything.” I want to shake her and scream that it’s just her depression talking, but I don’t. “You can’t give up onus.”
“It’s self-preservation.”
“No!”
“I think you should leave, Julian.”
“I guess I should. I should listen to you even though you’re talking nonsense right now.”
“That’s right. Brush off everything I say as nonsense because I’m mentally ill.”
