Falling Down

I left my cellphone in my bag, and slept until five p.m. today, which leads me to this question:  is depression contagious?  As few as five days ago, while certainly not happy, I was at least moderately level, and seeking comfort and satisfaction in the art studio Tim and I had worked so hard to put together.  Tim was up; I was as up as I can get these days.

Then for no tangible reason, other than perhaps the shift in the weather, Tim fell down.  I had noticed him talking less, smiling less until eventually his face was one of those stony statues that gaze down with striking features, but no real emotion.  Paths of traffic through the house became strategic- anything to avoid being engaged in a conversation; anything to avoid being touched.  I am affectionate by nature, nurturing by choice.  When someone is hurting, I touch them, hug them, cradle their head to my bosom.  He was having none of it.  The more I tried, the more feet he put between us.

Last of all, came the sleep.  Within maybe two days, he had gone from puttering around the house, tackling one small desperately needed project to another to falling into bed immediately upon arriving home, sans shower, and staying there until he was due back at work.  I was again, alone.  Not just emotionally alone, as I've had to grown accustomed to in this relationship, but physically alone, as well.  I could be living alone, raising a kind-hearted, quiet, and depressed son on my own.

This bipolar stuff is really something- change so severe so quickly.  It took three minutes for me to pull my head out of my butt and stop feeling sorry for how his illness was affecting me, and start thinking of how it was affecting him.  These were the three minutes:

He stumbled into my little studio, and without meeting my eyes at all, said, "I don't like it outside anymore.  It smells like when we went to the cemetery." 

Before I could ask him anything, he had shuffled back out, his eyes wet, and was fumbling for Dr. Z's number.

What a crap deal...to be going along just fine, feeling good, feeling as normal as anyone could after losing a child, and then just have the rug pulled out from underneath you.  At least he is willing to ask for help when he needs it, because let me assure you, not everyone is.

So last night, after work, he drove straight to the E. R.  Their prognosis:  post traumatic stress from losing Cory, exacerbated by his mood disorder.  They also said any stress at work, home, or from day to day life, such as finances, could be contributing factors.

Yeah, do ya think?  At the beginning of his decline, perhaps four days ago, he told me he wasn't sleeping well.  He'd been having nightmares about being shot in the head, and a particularly gritty one about me prostituting myself out to random men on a dirty gas station floor to pay our bills. 

I tilted my head, and just stared at him.  "Wow.  That's a nightmare, all right.  Don't worry, honey,"  I reassured him, "the most you'd ever have to worry about with me is topless dancing."

That earned me a half grin before he wandered out of the room, likely already running figures through his mind, and coming up short, broke, in the red.  What're we gonna do?  What're we gonna do?