“I’m not crazy.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need pills, either.”
“Maybe not,” I conceded. “But if you do, you’re going to take them.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I can, and I will.”
Her mood changed abruptly, and she began to cry. “I’m not crazy.”
I slid my arms around her and rocked her gently.
“I’m not crazy,” she repeated like a small child. “I’m not. I’m not crazy.”
* * *
Christy made it almost six weeks. The normal baby blues passed and she seemed fine, but she was lying to us and lying to herself. I missed the signs at first, since they happened so gradually. I was also busy with a project for school, so I saw what I wanted to see.
When I finally started putting the pieces together, I realized that Christy had sunk into a funk. She suffered from mood swings, insomnia, and irritability. She drank more, and she cried at night. She started watching home shopping networks again, and she bought things until I canceled her credit card. She argued or sulked, sometimes both at once.
Worst of all, she didn’t seem interested in Susie. I had to remind her to nurse, and I changed Susie’s diapers and gave her baths more than Christy did.
Wren saw what was happening, but she couldn’t do much to help. She had to work during the day and was usually worn out at night. Trip was too busy even to lend moral support. Harvard MBA students were the cream of the crop, and he was struggling for the first time in his life.
At least Wren’s salary allowed them to hire a real nanny for their own kids, although it was a blessing and a curse. Christy’s life was easier with only our children to look after, but she loved Wren’s kids and felt like a failure because she couldn’t take care of them too.
I nearly killed myself trying to do everything for us on my own. I stopped going to the gym and went grocery shopping instead. I kept the older girls busy with coloring books and rocked Susie while I made dinner. I even started doing the laundry so Christy could catch up on her sleep. I felt like Mr. Mom and Mr. Dad, but what else could I do?
Christy insisted she was fine and would recover if I just gave her time. I gave her two more weeks. Then I called the doctor and took her to the emergency room. I didn’t know what else to do. He prescribed antidepressants and counseling, like Kara’s psychiatrist friend had done. Christy didn’t want to take the pills and didn’t want to see the therapist, but I told her she didn’t have a choice.
She gradually recovered over the next few months, and things returned to normal, but “normal” was a relative thing. She took care of herself and the girls, but she wasn’t the same as before. The drugs killed her libido, so I had to jerk off in the shower if I wanted any attention. Her artistic urges cratered as well. Her sketchbooks collected dust, and half-finished statuettes sat on the shelf in her little studio corner. She wasn’t quite a robot, but she wasn’t my Sunshine anymore.
* * *
I went through my own crisis at the same time, my dark night of the soul. I thought about leaving Christy and even divorcing her. I hadn’t signed up for a sexless marriage or a wife on antidepressant autopilot. I still loved her, but I couldn’t go on like things were.
Worse, I’d met someone at school. I’d known her from the beginning, but we’d always run in different circles. She was a decade younger and without any real-world experience. But then everything changed when we started working on a project together.
We connected over the usual things, a love of art and beauty. Our friendship blossomed into something more, something very intense and intimate. We never crossed the line into actual sex, but we both wanted to.
She fed my ego in addition to my fantasy life. She was young and very pretty. She thought I was brilliant. She was full of life and excited about the future, our future. We didn’t argue about money or kids or anything else. I was miserable at home, but I could forget about my problems when we were together. I could be happy again.
I lay awake at night, wondering why I stayed in a marriage that was over. It was, wasn’t it? I tried to convince myself to leave, but I couldn’t bear the thought of life without my little girls. Besides, an idealistic part of me wanted to try and fix things with Christy. After all, hadn’t I sworn to love her in sickness and in health? What kind of man would I be if I abandoned her and our daughters at the first sign of trouble? Granted, it wasn’t the first sign, but no one had ever said marriage would be easy.
I eventually told my female friend that I wasn’t going to leave my wife and family. I loved her and didn’t want to break her heart, but I also loved Christy and our girls. My friend said she respected my decision, although things changed between us. I wanted to stay friends, but she started avoiding me, and I blamed Christy for the emptiness in my life.
* * *
Christy and I started seeing a counselor together, a woman named Kay. We also saw her separately, and she helped me realize how angry I was. I blamed Christy for lots of things. Some were her fault and some weren’t, but my anger was a sign of depression.
“You need an outlet,” Kay said. “One where you can connect with your wife instead of avoiding her. Why don’t you try dancing instead of boxing? You enjoyed it back in college.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but dancing has a couple of bad memories for Christy.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?”
“Not really.”
“That’s what we’re here for, though, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
She waited. She was very good at it.
“I… um… was seeing someone else,” I admitted. “For a couple of months. When Christy and I were first engaged.”
“Mmm. Go on.”
“How much has she told you about our lifestyle?” I asked obliquely.
“The swinging? Enough.”
“You disapprove?”
“No, not at all. I think it’s healthy. For you, at least. And… I’ll be honest, I’ve never encountered a couple who’ve made it work. Not long-term like you have. But you and Christy both have a healthy mindset about it. I think it’s one of the strengths you should focus on. But let’s get back to this other woman. Were you actually dating her?”
“She thought we were.”
“What about you?”
“Not at first,” I admitted, “but… yeah, maybe we were.”
“So it was more serious than just sex.”
“Yeah.”
“She was your dance partner?”
“She was an instructor. But she was also my partner. In more ways than one, I guess.”
“What happened?”
I told her the short version of the Terri story.
“Ah, I see,” Kay said. “So you thought Christy was cheating, and she thought you were.”
“More or less.”
“Were you?”
“In my head…? Not really. But… yeah, maybe. I guess I wondered if Christy was the right choice.”
“Was she?”
“What do you think?” I said, a touch sarcastically.
Kay made a note and then dropped a bombshell. “Would it surprise you that she was excited when I mentioned dancing?”
“A little, yeah,” I admitted.
“She wanted me to tell you. I think it would be a good way for you to reconnect, without your daughters. That’s important to couples, to have a life where you aren’t ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’ all the time.”
“I suppose.”
“Christy also needs the activity. She doesn’t do well in situations without physical stimulation.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “You mentioned that in the joint sessions. But that’s your department. She doesn’t do well in any situations at the moment.”
“I know,” Kay agreed. “I’m going to speak to her physician about reducing her medication. Part of her problem is that she’s ‘on autopilot,’ as you said.” She made a note. “I also think it will help her libido. Your sex life is important to both of you. It’s important to every couple, but you and Christy have a much deeper need for sex than most people.”