He returns with a pair of boxing gloves, holds up a pillow from the couch.
“Punch it,” he says. “Beat the depression up.”
Crying harder now, I take a pathetic swing at the pillow. It’s not that this isn’t helping; it’s that it is. That he cares about me so much. That he can read me and figure out what I need.
I punch harder, because I hate the depression, and I love him so much. I have to fight harder if I want to stay with him, stay here at all.
There have been times when, even next to him, I have felt lonely. But once again, he has broken the barrier, has made me feel less alone in the fight.
He says: “Maybe there is some kind of reason for this. Maybe it was meant to bring us closer together than we ever could have been.”
While part of me thinks that this is absolutely the wrong thing to say, that it undermines the severity of the depression, and perhaps even belittles my suffering, at the same time I know it is true. Our love goes beyond the “wrong thing” to say, and goes beyond what I ever could have imagined. He proves to me that love is real, over and over again, with his unwavering support.
Often, though I don’t like to admit it, it is when it seems like the breaking point that I start to feel better.
“We’re going to beat this depression together,” he tells me, pulling me close. “We will fucking kill it.”
I feel his love, like heat building up in my body. And suddenly, I feel like fighting back. I feel like maybe it is possible for things to get better, for me to acknowledge the depression, and my anger, and move on.
Maybe there is a future for me after all, where depression doesn’t control me. I control it, and hold it down, and beat it. Because that is what it deserves, and what I deserve.
If you have ever wondered if love is real, believe it now.
And fight for your life.
Who do you have who is on your side against depression? How do they help you fight back?
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