Page 150 of The Devil We Know

I call this my deadhead portion of depression. The moment when I have a lull in all the things I can hyper-focus on, and I come crashing down into what can only be described as the pits of despair.

Dramatic, I know, but here I sit.

Glancing at my watch, I shake my head, snorting at my own idiocy. A previous version of me would have immediately followed my wife upstairs to help her in the bath. Yet, here I sit like an asshole, trying to work up the energy to even walk up the stairs.

Don't get me wrong, managing to overcome a mental fog daily in order to go about your business is difficult on a good day. And I know that being sad and angry over the loss of a loved one or a job or whatever may ail me doesn't necessarily make me an asshole, but some days, such as this moment, I feel I could be making a better attempt at not ostracizing my wife.

I grit my teeth, cursing under my breath as I force myself to stand. I plod upstairs on heavy feet, using the banister to half-drag myself upward. I methodically put one foot in front of the other, only managing to trip over the top stair, where I fall face-first.

Immediately rolling onto my back, I lie there with my feet placed on the stairs, my torso across the landing. Then I laugh, having a good chuckle at my own expense.

“Get up, asshole,” comes a whisper off to my left. I turn my head toward the sound, frowning to find no one is standing there.

My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I choke and then cough. Then I curse some more, once again staring up at the ceiling as I work up the energy to keep moving.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jessica asks from my right-hand side.

I turn my head toward her, shrugging as I reply, “I was coming to ravage you.”

She gives me a completely incredulous look and shakes her head. “Well, I see you're making as much progress as normal. Carry on.”

I open my mouth to reply, but she turns and walks back down the hallway, disappearing into the bedroom. I scowl, annoyed that she so frankly called me out, mostly because it's true.

My scowl deepens, as anger bubbles up inside me because true or not, it was kind of a dickish thing to say.

Suddenly rejuvenated, I roll onto my front, get on my hands and knees, and then rise to my feet. I stride down the hallway and into the bedroom like a man on a mission, walking up behind Jessica, who's sitting at her vanity, combing her hair.

She doesn't look at me or acknowledge that I've entered the room. So, finally, I clear my throat and ask, “Is that really how you're going to talk to me?”

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, her hand holding the comb stopping mid-stroke through her long hair. Slowly, she pulls the comb free from her hair, dropping it on the vanity with a thwack. She visibly bristles, her jaw clenching a few times before she cocks her head at me and says, “You want to rephrase that?”

I glare at her. “No, I don't think I will.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm fucking sure. Just because I'm going through some stuff—"

“Don't you even fucking start,” she interrupts angrily, standing so abruptly the stool she was sitting on topples over. She stepsright in front of me, her finger poking me in the chest as she adds, “I'm well aware that you're going through some stuff. I'm right here. I am always right here, ready to support you, to listen to you, to just be there for you.”

Her lips press together as she pauses, anger and sadness marring her features, but then she pokes me in the chest again. “You know what, if you want to fucking wallow, you go fucking wallow. But why don't you stay the fuck out of my way while you do it so I don't have to watch you.”

My glare intensifies, and this time, I swat her hand away before she can poke me again. “And where do you suggest I do my wallowing, then?”

“I don't fucking care. How about I just leave so then you can wallow at will wherever you want, whenever you want.”

“Leave and go where?”

“Who fucking cares?”

“You can't leave, Jess,” I retort. “We're stuck together, so just get used to it.”

Her eyes widen, and she laughs bitterly. “I can assure you, I'm not stuck anywhere, ever.”

“We're married. That means we’re entirely stuck with each other.”

She shakes her head, brushing by me and walking toward the bed as she replies, “I don't think so. I didn't work this long and hard to end up stuck anywhere I don't want to be.”

I turn toward her, taking a few steps in her direction before I stop, the deep ache in my chest intensifying at her words. “What do you mean?”

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