I’ve been dreading writing this post. I don’t want my new husband to feel discouraged or in any way like this is his fault. We’ve talked about it, gone through some really deep and dark moments this week, and I think it’s finally time to talk about it in public.
My wedding made me depressed.
During our honeymoon (it began late on our wedding night, long after Brent had dozed off and I was wide-eyed, gazing out our 18th-floor window at the moonlit Dallas skyline) I experienced several bouts of major depression. At first I blew it off as pure melancholy, but inside I knew it was much darker than that.
I was so devastated at my feelings and desperate to make sure my husband didn’t catch a case of the blues from me. But the depression was difficult to hide. On July 13, the day after our wedding, I slept until 2:30 p.m. — a sure sign of that soul cancer — and I suspect Brent knew something was amiss.
Curled beneath the blankets on my bed, I tried to soothe myself with thoughts of our coming adventure through Texas. I kept up a steady mantra of “This is going to end soon,” but I couldn’t fool myself. That first day dragged slowly into the second, and that evening, the anguish lifted. Brent patiently kept pace as I dragged my leaden soul around the Southfork Hotel, through dinner and a couple hours of therapeutic journaling.
The next day began with anger, antipathy and an apathetic view of my husband. It wasn’t his fault, Reader. Sure, even our most cherished ones let us down from time to time, but the fire that came roaring out of me en route to a Dallas ranch scared me.
Mostly, I was terrified of my ambivalence.
God wasn’t done with me though, and He was most definitely not ambivalent to my agony, and the fireballs I had hurled at my husband. The wisdom of the Almighty and a silent drive through the Texas hill country dulled the edge of my disgust.
(Stay tuned for Part 2 in this 3 part series)