On the fourth (edit: and last) day of sobriety,

I think of Januaries and Februaries past, smoke a morning cigarette in the rain, and cave in to taking my antidepressants again. Wellbutrin has been a mainstay on and off for the past five years but constantly since last May.  And Citalopram (though not without its grueling and, in my opinion, life-withering side effects) has according to my significant other changed my personality for the best.

Nothing is going well.  Since November I’ve gained about 20 pounds and now rely solely on leggings and long shirts.  I haven’t put on a bra most days, because I stopped calling my friends and never leave the house.  I want to blame it on the winter and the rain.  They don’t help, but the real problem is I’m too dark to have anything good to say and too embarrassed to hear myself speak to anyone.

Last night I tried to speak to T about the side effects of my medication, but as usual he implored in his aggravated affect why I couldn’t just “force myself to work out?” or “have something good to say?” or “get involved in an activity?”

The most irritated he gets with me, the more my self-confidence dives.  I try to tell him the depression itself is what’s making those things seem overwhelming and painful, that I”m scared and confused and alone, that I’m freaking out that my small efforts to improve are doing next to nothing. A couple days ago he said it was “pathetic” that I wanted to kill myself.  That I’m being “lazy” in failing to find something to keep myself occupied.

And while I can see where he’s coming from, those comments alternating with ones about how much he loves me make me hate him.  Who does he think he loves? I wonder… And what kind of child thinks he can get a real relationship without a real person?

But even though I hate him for his comments, and even though I think he’s being insensitive and not the type of person I can live with forever, I always turn it back on myself.  I think “yeah, he’s right, I’m pathetic.” and “yeah, he’s right, if I weren’t so lazy I wouldn’t be so fat.” And when he asks me to switch his laundry to the dryer whilehe’s away working, I do it.  Even though I burn with resentment. Would a pathetic partner do this for you? Would a lazy partner do this for you?

Just because he keeps himself busy doesn’t mean he’s being good to me.

Last night he told me that if I didn’t have something to say besides

being depressed,

being fat, or

wanting to kill myself

then I shouldn’t talk to him at all.

 

 

 

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