Wrapping my arms tight around my wife’s body in bed, I held my breath.
It was after midnight, and she was shaking with silent sobs.
Sometimes a sob would emit from her quivering lips, or she’d lift a hand from underneath my arms to wipe away her tears.
‘I feel so alone,’ she whispered.
‘I just don’t have any friends,’ she sobbed, shaking under my arms.
This is what a normal night is like for me, when my wife is at her worst. This is what it’s like being married to someone with social anxiety and depression.
When I first met my wife six years ago, she was bubbly; a breath of fresh air. And she still is, she just sometimes doesn’t see it.
It was love at first sight. From the first smile, to the first hello – I was hooked on her presence. Her aura was addictive, and everyone else around me thought so too. People clambered for her attention – her chocolate-brown eyes seemed to smile, look right at you.
But underneath that smile was a troubled young woman recovering from a toxic relationship, trying to wean herself off medication.
With me, she forgot to take her meds. I distracted her. Our love overwhelmed her to the point where she healed, flourished, and grew into the woman I knew she was.
She had her moments – mainly at night time, when the room was dark and silent, her past encroached on her. On us. But she held it together, always wobbling but keeping strong.
Except in the last year, she spiralled. One day, it was like a switch flipped. She called me at work hyperventilating, having a panic attack.
‘I have no friends,’ she screamed, sobbing down the phone. Her voice breaking with tears. I could have fallen to my knees.
It was mere months after our wedding. The happiest day of my life. We had over 100 guests there for us, for her. She was loved, cherished and worshipped – by me, her family, my family and my friends. She was an angel, and she welcomed the love and friendship with open arms.
Except, she didn’t see it anymore.
With the coronavirus lockdown, and finally spending time in entirely her own company – no distractions, no coffee dates – she broke.
Her depression hit like a brick, and she developed crippling social anxiety. She would barely leave the house, or her bed. She constantly scrutinised friends on Instagram, convincing herself that they hated her – that they deliberately left her out because she was somehow a bad person.
She cried constantly and had severe mood-swings. One moment she’d be loving, showering me with affection and dancing while washing the dishes – the next, she’d be refusing to wash her hair, sobbing, and shaking.
I’d tell her I loved her, that I was her husband and she had scores of friends she could call and rely on. But her eyes glazed over, she stared right through me. She told me that I was too good for her, that she didn’t deserve anyone – didn’t deserve love.
She had convinced herself that she would have lost if she turned to meds again – now she was married, she had to be well. She couldn’t be a wife and depressed, could she? That was unheard of.
I wanted to scream, cry, shake her and walk out sometimes. She wouldn’t listen to me, she couldn’t.
‘I need help,’ she finally whispered one night in bed – her eyes glistening in the darkness. My eyes closed and for the first time, I felt at peace.
Her doctor listened to her, mopped up her tears and prescribed her the same meds as years ago – but stronger. I held her as she writhed with agony, clutching her stomach from the side-effects. Whispering to her that she would get better, and she’d be loved. She always had been.
That was six months ago now and she’s better than ever. She smiles, she is kind to herself and she knows she is loved.
She has moments where she believes she’s alone, or she’s broken – but she recovers faster and comes out stronger. She cries, or has a panic attack, but straightens herself out and sits outside with the neighbour’s cat and a peppermint tea. Content with the world and her own company – finally.
My wife is depressed – she always has been, and probably always will be. But she is strong, fierce and my soulmate. Her social anxiety and depression doesn’t define her, it’s part of her – she manages it, and it makes her stronger. And I’ve never been more proud, or more in love.
