Page 81 of Keeping Her Under
Slowly.
Cherishingly.
Lovingly.
“I love you,” she murmurs into my ear. “All parts of you. You can never scare me.”
Lifting my head, I kiss her like a soldier coming home.
Epilogue
I’m no stranger to depression. So when it rears its ugly head in Summer, I know exactly what to do. I don’t abandon her like her mother did. I don’t hit her and blame her like Lance.
Instead, I compliment her constantly to combat the negativity in her head. I make sure she gets out of the house and socializes even when she doesn’t want to. “Only five minutes,” I tell her, but we often stay for longer. Because depression will do that to you; it’ll trick you into thinking that what it wants is what you want. But I know it for the disease it is, the liar it is.
I take Summer outside for at least half an hour every day. We walk through the woods, touching the trees. We sit on the grass and smell the flowers. Green spaces, fresh air, and sunlight have all been proven to increase our serotonin. As does exercise and music, so I find all her favorite songs, and I dance with her in our living room. I make love to her with a special soundtrack playing. The goal is to rewire and reshape her brain through actions, a neurological physical therapy. Muscle memory of happiness.
Soon, she’s back to herself again. Laughing and smiling and traveling the world with me. We dance in the ballrooms of Bath during the Jane Austen Festival. We laugh and make love under the Milky Way in the Outback. We watch the ballet in the Palais Garnier in Paris. The acrobats fly in Cirque de Soleil. We get married in our home library, with only Asher and Alina as our witnesses.
For our honeymoon, we visit the most beautiful libraries in the world. The George Peabody Library in Baltimore, with its cast-iron railings and white Corinthian-style columns stretching up five floors. The Royal Portuguese Cabinet of Reading down in Brazil, with its Gothic architecture leading to an intricate iron skylight. The Clementinum in Prague, which opened in 1722, and holds over 20,000 books under ornate painted ceilings. The Admont Abby in Austria, built in 1074, with books from the eighth century; gold carvings caressing their bookshelves, with secret staircases for the monks.
But by the time we visit the Stiftsbibliothek Sankt Gallen in Switzerland, another depressive episode hits.
“I’m sorry,” she says for one thing after another. And it doesn’t matter how much I tell her it’s okay, she keeps telling me, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry for yelling at you.”
“I’m sorry for ruining our honeymoon.”
“I’m sorry for marrying you.”
“I’m sorry for being a burden.”
“I’m sorry for being alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
For weeks on end, her depression drags her down. I do all the things I did the first time, and slowly but surely, she comes back to me.
Six months of happiness follows.
Three months of misery.
Four months of joy.
Six months of severe depression.
Two months of the occasional smile.
Ten months of nothing but pain.
And I’m trying to stay positive. To keep getting her up and moving so she doesn’t waste away. I know how hard it is to fight depression once it gets you bedridden.
But this time, it doesn’t matter how much I dance with her or walk with her outside. Nothing I do is working. Therapy doesn’t help either.
