Sometimes I wonder about myself. When Martin comes out of bed in his own shuffling corridor in the morning and moans his temples, moaning softly, while he sits sluggishly at the breakfast table like an 80-year-old, it doesn't do much to me. No more. Earlier, thirty years ago, when we were newly married, all of this and each of his heavy breaths made me angry. As he sank deeper into a whirlpool of darkness day after day, I struggled for air and light next to him. My heart grew heavier and heavier, and I wondered how I got into this life. How I got out. What would have been if I had chosen another person. One who has as much joy in me as I do. Today I don't ask myself such questions anymore. Because they would mock happiness and all the great gifts of my life that I am so thankful for. And yes, that also applies to Martin. Despite the severity that has been a part of him for so long, I am grateful for him. Even if that sounds strange to others.
I am not a masochist
It is really important to me to say clearly that I am not a martyr. I do not sacrifice myself, I do not unhappily conscientiously stick to a promise I once made. I didn't turn away when the depression broke out, and it was very difficult at the beginning. But I knew I only had two options: grow or walk. Suffering was not one of the opportunities I would have taken in my life in the long term. Fortunately, I didn't have to go because I managed to grow from Martin and his illness.
The sadness came with the children
When I first met Martin, I was kind of confused. On the one hand there was this heartily laughing, sincere guy who looked at me so lovingly with his blue-flashing eyes. And then there was something else that I couldn't grasp. "Something funny," said my big brother. Something sad, I thought. We gradually got to know each other better and better. I learned more and more about his childhood, which was always a fight against illness and poverty. I got to know his family, where everyone seemed to be fighting their own struggle with the past. And I understood that far more would happen behind the beautiful eyes than blue flashing joy. Nevertheless, I chose Martin. He should be and no one else. When our first son was born, there was suddenly no more lightning. Martin's eyes grew cloudy, he pulled away, sometimes didn't say a word to me and his son for days. It broke my heart, not just because of me, but above all because of the child, who in his innocence was literally begging for love and recognition – without success.
His treatment has given me distance
When Martin was no longer able to go to work, he finally realized that he needed help. He was in the clinic for many months, but he only came home on weekends. This time was not only important for him, but also for me. I have learned to find my own strength again and to take care of myself. Of course it was exhausting to be alone with the child, but it also gave me the opportunity to develop a little more independently. I found my joy in exercise again. A lot went out, among people, renovated the apartment as much as possible. Once, when I was on the plane and the stewardess was reading her instructions, I had to laugh at how wise her instructions were. "In the unlikely event of a loss of pressure, oxygen masks automatically fall out of the cabin ceiling. Pull the mask towards you and press it firmly onto your mouth and nose. Continue breathing normally. Only then should you help children and people in need." I still think of this instruction often today when the weight in our house becomes too overwhelming. Then I think about how I can help myself and continue to breathe normally. Only when I have succeeded will I have the energy to take care of Martin's worries again.
I hope I have protected the children well
Sometimes I thought about going anyway. Not because of me – I got along – but because of the children. A couple of years after the therapy, we had two daughters. And although treatment can do a lot, depression has never really been gone. To this day there are better and worse phases. In bad times I often packed my bags in my thoughts, although I love Martin. When I saw the children suffer, how busy their father was with himself, it was hard to bear. I still decided to stay and tried to buffer as much as possible. Sometimes I grabbed the kids after dinner and went to the lake for a swim, building sand castles, and playing frisbee. The neighbors might have thought I was crazy. But I just wanted to show my son and daughters a different concept than their father's lethargy and just keep away from him on some days. I had to protect her from the grief that dominated Martin's world so often. In the meantime, all three children have grown up and I think I managed to give them joy in life. In any case, I see three life-affirming people standing in the middle of life, each one particularly and exactly right in their own way.
I love this man. Point.
If I was asked whether I regret this wedding, I could answer with a resounding no. Martin has always treated me well, within his means. Then I judge him and not by his illness. I'm still happy about his blue eyes (whether they sparkle or not), his love and his joke and wit in the good times. In bad times I listen to him and I am there for him, but always with a watchful eye on myself and my needs. I don't want to talk it over: having a partner with depression can put you on the edge of your own strength and there will always be days when I stand with Martin in front of the abyss and look into the dark. But every other day, I celebrate life, my children, my husband and the world. I will be happy about the salty sea air, the contagious laugh of my grandchildren, the great gear shift on my bike and all the other beautiful things that have been and will be given to me. Because Martin is Martin. Depression is depression. And I am me. As happy, childish, crazy and active as I am. Understanding this simple-sounding formula was the key to my happiness, I think. And yes, my happiness in love too.