My four loves, and a look at depression

My first love was the summer of my sixteenth birthday.   My interests growing up leaned towards the active side.  I am more alive when I feel the sun beating on me, smelling pine trees or creosote traveling on the wind, and hearing the birds chattering.  We had so much fun every meal in the dining hall with friends and watching the stars at night. It was a blissful, carefree summer. He taught me how to talk, and not be afraid of myself. 

My second love was my senior year in high school. So many long talks and late nights. I loved his laugh.  I loved looking at him.  I loved how smart he was.  He had a girlfriend, and didn't ask me to our Grants High School senior prom, too offenses for which I will never forgive him for. I was an all consuming jealous. He taught me patience.

I met my third and fourth loves my first year of college in Thatcher, Arizona.

I loved Ian first. He was my brother’s roommate and my best friend that first year of college.  We went on runs together along the beautiful cotton farms of the valley and talk for hours, watching the sun set while we sat in the canals.  Then Ian left on a religious mission to Taiwan, and asked me not to write him while he was away.

So I dated my fourth love the following year.  He was a tall red-head who shared the love of basketball with me, and taught me to play tennis. I sat with my legs over his lap on the bench on the tennis court and talked about forever. But I wasn't ready for the forever. I was young.  Still so young. We went to BYU together, well not together, but at the same time, and I couldn't seem to let him go.  One night I went to visit him.  I told him I missed him.  We decided we should get married.  For two weeks of being engaged I struggled with so many emotions.  I loved him, he annoyed me, what was wrong with me for feeling annoyed? I couldn't imagine life without this tall redhead and his consistency and steadiness. I felt trapped. I felt unworthy. I thought I needed to go on a religious mission of my own to be worthy again.  If I gave God 18 months, I would be happy, right?

Depression.

I hadn't dealt with this before.  Depression.  I didn't even know what it was or what it meant.  I thought maybe it meant I would never be happy again.  I thought God didn't love me anymore. I thought I was doing something wrong.  I went deeper into myself.  I couldn't say the words I was thinking. What was wrong with me? I had to get out.

He let me. Of course. He taught me I was beautiful.

So I dated. Boys I would never marry. Boys I didn’t love. Boys who didn’t want me. I traveled.  I went to London. I watched plays. I made new friends. I hiked the mountains of New Mexico. And, I didn’t feel trapped.

After one year at BYU, Ian came home from Taiwan. It was September. He was in Arizona, and I was in Provo.  We talked on the phone every Wednesday at 4:30.  He would call me after my tennis class.   The conversations got longer and longer. I told him of my broken heart, and broken self.  He told me about his love of chopsticks, the Chinese language, and he listened to me.  He asked me questions. I gave him answers. I still dated boys, but I was waiting for Ian. Together, we made plans. He wrote me a love song, and told me he loved me. I kissed him, sitting beside him on a piano bench. He came to BYU the next January.  We got engaged.  He did it wrong-proposed in a car, not even getting down on one knee or anything.  I said yes anyway. I waited for the trapped feeling. It didn’t come.  With Ian, I felt we would conquer anything together.

I didn’t feel the trapped feeling until after I had my first baby.  You see. Love stories don’t end once you’re married.  That is only in fairy tales.  Those are make-believe to protect the innocence of children. 

After my first baby, the trapped feeling came.  I felt broken again-alone in a dark hole, incapable of being a decent mother.  And I couldn't say the words again.  I went inside myself, all the while putting on a show of happiness so I wouldn't feel I had made a wrong choice.

 I was able to talk to a dear friend, and she helped me know what I was feeling. She had depression, too. I wouldn't have known it to look at her with her beautiful blond children and happy husband.  I admired her so much, I knew I wasn't broken. She taught me about triggers.  I was able to learn about what triggered my depression: feeling overwhelmed, feeling inadequate to a task, feeling the need to impress in-laws (not even kidding here), exposure to violence of women and children, misplacing or losing things, cold weather. Just knowing what the triggers were made a world of difference.  I avoid the triggers when I can.  I live in sunny New Mexico.  I let some housework go, and play instead.  I try to exercise.  Currently, as a mother of four, I take medication.  I may need to adjust things in the future, but that is all part of not being broken.

 

My last love, my Ian, is so good to me. I don’t believe in soul mates, but I do believe in commitment to the one you marry.  That person becomes THE person.  He is patient with my ups and downs, and listens to all my dark thoughts,  and tells me I’m OK. He prompts me to get help when needed.  He helps me feel God loves me, and that I am a good mother, a good wife, a good person.  We cook dinner together, and sing made up songs with our children.  We still kiss while we sit next to each other on the piano bench. We have created a happy home together. Imperfect, but that makes it perfect. 

Because he listened.  Because he asked.  Ian has taught me about me. 

I can make myself happy.