Someone I love dearly beyond words or measure asked if my depression being unmedicated was creating havoc on me. And I think it is. I know it is. I’m an uninsured American with multiple problems that all intersection with a dose of depression. Sometimes I write, to let it out. To let the inky, dark, crawling emptiness face some blinding light.
I can’t and don’t trust myself in many ways. I trust myself professionally without hesitation. I trust my writing, my abilities to create and craft research. I trust my own instincts, but I can’t always trust my own goodness. I can’t see the part of me helping illuminate my good points, not just bad.
I do things for people because it’s right, it’s being part of humanity and a community. But I can’t take that into account in a ticking ‘good’ column since being decent isn’t really award-worthy in my mind.
Oh, I’m my harshest critic–make no doubt. Nothing you can say will match my own hard truths I deliver all the time. If you’ve ever graded my work, or proofread anything, you have no idea how truly cold I can be. Bloodless bath of misery. Part of my tendencies to strive for perfection.
My fiance stayed for 3 weeks. Glorious weeks, actually. This isn’t a cooing, cloying phrasing either. We had some serious issues for awhile there. Like, say, don’t go snoring in bed when I’m trying to sleep and how to learn to live together at the same time. But it was so amazing. And then. He had to go back to his native country 5,000 miles away and a 10 hour plane ride.
People who don’t date long-distance, as in two different continents, will often offer platitudes of “it’ll be better soon.” Yes. It will, but it’s months, or years, for his touch. I don’t mean sexually, either. I mean, his touch. To feel his fingers stroking my back as we cuddle up and watch movies, or feeling his hand around my waist as we’re attempting to sleep. (Seriously, snoring in the ear can be a tad noisy.) It’s the little things, like doing the dishes in the kitchen, or teaching him how to do laundry my way. It’s a precious gift that I’m without now. Because he’s 5,000 miles and 6 time zones away.
Neither of us are happy. I can’t eat, I’m prone to bursts of crying. It’s been less than 24 hours but it feels like 24 years. There’s something comforting in being able to cuddle in bed after a long adventure in a new town. You learn so much about each other when putting together an IKEA desk. Or painting pictures, so each of you has something of the other in a set, because you’re both artists. It’s such little things and it’s hard to move past.
I had a hard time coming to bed last night. I didn’t actually until he’d landed and heard that he was okay. I slept on the fold out couch (IKEA, of course) for three hours this morning. Took a 2 hour nap in the bed, smelling him on the pillow and sheets. Comforted but painfully so. After all, his scent will leave eventually. Then what? He left me some clothes to sleep in, or sleep with, and that was fantastic. But it’s still not him. He’s my home, my port in the middle of uncertainty. I don’t use that word lightly. If ever. I’m not prone to high romance novel reactions. But for him, I am.
Sometimes, you just need someone so much it’s like air. But international marriages aren’t easy when you’re a new graduate without a steady job because you’ve been out of school for less than a month. And your school didn’t offer the languages needed to study to make moving over there easy. Language classes aren’t readily available, you can’t afford the Goethe, and you just want to crawl up as you watch every single shortcoming become visible.
Visas are expensive, basic payments are expensive, and knowing you’ll have to live on a reduced salary once you get it because of student loans isn’t easy. There’s something terribly backwards about it all, really. The expectation of a “green card wedding” based on love. Sometimes love is simply love. And it’s impossible to find routes when prices to fly and see each other skyrocket.
All I want is my fiance, curled in the bed, laughing over my melodramatic sentiments, kissing my neck and arms wrapped around me. It’s like a terribly amazing dream and then, whoosh, the air’s all gone out. We’ll do what we need to be together, but after 1.5 years of dating, the waiting is getting harder and harder. All we want is to be home. And home is where the other is. No fancy houses needed. No great cars.
Just a tiny little studio with little room but space for us and some of our belongings, like the paintings on the wall and his costume figures. Not to much to ask, right?