Another fucking argument with That Canadian Boy I Married about depression and what I can do to fix it. The $65 co-pay for Cymbalta will throw a massive wrench into our already-precarious finances but the depression is taking an even bigger toll.
His answer, after telling me he didn’t think he needed to feel any sympathy or understanding for me, was that I should re-try all the anti-depressants I’ve already tried and already had documented reactions to – for some reason, he seems to think that my body chemistry will have changed and I won’t have the same reactions to those drugs now. Mr. fucking physician, I guess.
These arguments leave me so drained. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t see the need to get it and honestly thinks I should just be able to say “Hey, self, stop feeling that way” and I will be fine. If only it were that easy. I try to explain it to him, try to talk to him about it and he just placates me by telling me that he understands. But then we have another one of these arguments and his true feelings show. He doesn’t want to discuss it with a professional; he doesn’t see the point.
I don’t tell him a lot of what I’m feeling because of this. Of the times I flirt with taking the whole bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills, of the wish that I could just go bat-shit crazy and be done with it. I know that he’d leave if I did go nuts. And while I’d survive that, I wouldn’t survive him probably trying to take the kids away, which I’m sure he’d want to do – and it would be kind of understandable.
So I told him I’d make the damned phone call to the damned doctor and talk to her about it. I’m 99.9% sure that there’s nothing new out there, that I’ve tried them all, but whatever. If it will shut him up and get him off my back, I’ll do it. If that’s the only way I can justify the $65 a month, so be it.
It pisses me off, though, this constant need of his to piss and moan about the cost of prescriptions for something he doesn’t deem real. These are the times that I wish I could just swap bodies with him for a day, so he could live inside my head and see what a muddled mess it is in there, so he could see how I really feel most days, how difficult this is to handle without medication. Maybe then he might muster some of his nearly non-existent sympathy for what I’m going through.