I'm Still In Here!

The hormonal imbalances that cause my bouts of depression hit me hard and fast out of nowhere, like those cartoons where Bugs Bunny gets an anvil dropped on his head, and stars dance around his cranium while his eyeballs roll around in their sockets like marbles. To my credit, they are happening less frequently, and I have been cheerful, productive and good humored 90% of my waking hours since Babyman and I have begun out new relationship a few months ago. My marriage is happier, so I am finding more joy in life. But it still happens, and on Monday evening the storm clouds of an unexpected wave of depression moved in on me and I began losing control of my emotions.

These are the times when I desperately want a cigarette, or when I don't want to get out of bed. I'm anxious, irritable, angry at nothing and everything, and poor Babyman is lost in a sea of confusion. Did he do something to upset me? Did he forget something? Did he hurt my feelings somehow? He wisely gives me my space Monday night, hoping it will blow over.

He walks into the bedroom Tuesday morning and catches me pacing back and forth, a clear symptom that I'm about to explode. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Nothing!" I'm snapping at him now. The answer lies in a myriad of possibilities: The weather is cloudy and gray, I'm sluggish, I don't want to go to the gym, I'm disappointed in myself for overeating last night, he's preaching tonight at a ministry across town, and I don't want to spend the evening alone, I have bed head, I don't want to do laundry... A hundred stupid reasons, and not one legitimate one. All I know for sure is that I feel a profound sense of sadness, insecurity, isolation, and it makes me... angry. What the hell is a hormone, anyway? And who gave it permission to take up residence in my body and screw with me like this?

I crawl back in the bed, violently kick the covers to the floor as I grab the top sheet and pull it over my head. Babyman knows I need some time alone, so he walks out to continue his morning routine. I hear the shower, his electric razor, and I begin to cry like an idiot.. I'm mostly crying because I don't know what's bothering me, and I'm taking it out on the sweetest guy in the world.

Before long he comes into the bedroom and dresses. I'm curled up in the fetal position hoping he doesn't try to communicate with me because I have no control over how I'll respond.

Finally he appears at the side of the bed and informs me that he's leaving. I kick the sheet off and sit up, but can't look at him. A few months ago I would have just mumbled an abrupt goodbye, and let him walk out the door, but he made it clear that that's not acceptable anymore. When he leaves, we have to have physical contact, and some semblance of communication. Okay. So I sit up and wait for him to bend down and hug me. I can't take the initiative myself. I'm lost in my own misery.

He sees I've been crying. He's more than familiar with this scene. "You need to get to the gym today," he says. "you'll feel better."

"Yeah," I mumble.

"Sugar..."

"What?"

"Baby, you need to pull yourself out of this, or... I'm going to have to go in and get you." He always had an interesting way of putting things. The idea that his loving wife is being held captive against her will inside the outer shell of a crazy lunatic bitch was really not far off the mark.  Part of me wants to scream, "I'm still in here!  Don't give up on me!"

I finally make eye contact. I know exactly what he means by coming in to get me. The whole concept of spanking me out of my depression has been effective.  Somehow it replaces the diminished endorphins, and causes me to purge myself of pent up anger and frustration and the horrible feeling of anguish from an unknown source. It works. But it also hurts, and God, how I hate it.

When he says this, I try to smile. I don't want to be spanked. I want to try to handle this myself even though I know it'll take all day, and I may not succeed by the time he gets home tonight. "I'll be okay," I say. I don't think my pathetic smile is fooling him for a moment.

He grabs a hold of my arm and lifts me to my feet and presses me against him. I breath in his scent of cologne and deodorant and mouthwash. I hold my breath in an attempt to keep from bursting into tears.

When he walks out, and I hear him lock the door behind him, I collapse on the bed, and start crying again. How am I going to get through this day? I decide that my best bet is to try and go back to sleep. After about five minutes, I hear a key in the door. He's back. He probably forgot his glasses, or maybe his phone. I wipe my eyes and remain still. Maybe he'll just get what he forgot, and leave again without feeling the need to check on me.

Suddenly I feel a tap on my leg. I look over my shoulder, and he's standing there with the paddle in his hand. "Come in the den," he says.

"What? Why? I thought..."

He disappears from the door, and I'm compelled to follow him. He 's sitting on the couch, two pillows are on the floor between his feet. It's me! He came back for me!

"You're going to be late," I say.

"I don't care," he says. "You're more important. I couldn't leave you like this."

"I'm okay, really."

"No you're not.Come' on baby, let's just do this. You'll feel better."

I slowly get in front of him and drop to my knees onto the pillows between his legs. He gently guides me over one knee and tells me to lift my nightshirt. He wants me to do it myself because he wants my willing participation. I obey. I feel him lean down and kiss me on the small of my back. I start crying almost uncontrollably. I feel him tighten his grip around my waist and he begins slapping my behind with the paddle, gently at first, but then a steady rhythm ensues, harder and harder. I'm sobbing now. I can hear him talking to me, and I'm really only picking up the gist of what he's saying. "Love you... I know you're in there... Come back to me... need you to feel better... need you...hang in there... you can do it... I want you back. You gotta come back to me... " the strikes of the paddle are getting harder, more deliberate. My backside is on fire, and he shows no signs of letting up. I'm wiggling now, starting to try to free myself. He holds me tighter. "I know, Sugar, it's almost over," he whispers. I'm bawling into the comforter we keep on the couch.

He finally stops, and I am exhausted, still blubbering and sniveling. He lifts me up and hugs me while I finish crying. "I'm getting your shirt all wet and snotty," I say.

"I don't care." He walks me back to the bedroom and tells me to take a nap. Then he leaves for work while I lay on my stomach and fall into a deep comfortable sleep. I awake 2 hours later. The anger and anxiety are gone. I don't like the fact that my depression can be spanked away like that. It's not a very politically correct thing to admit, and I have a love-hate relationship with the whole concept.
 
But I'm glad he came back for me.  I'm always still in here.