Dearest,

I think you may be suffering from depression. You are angrier than usual (you never used to be angry). You also seem constantly anxious. It's not that we don't have things to worry about - we do. But you seem to spin out of control with worry. Last night you kept us both up until 1 am with a catalog of problems, big and small, which just spilled and spilled and spilled out of you. They ranged from money issues to the way I organized my desk to soap to sound.

I wish I could find a way to convince you to see a doctor, to get help. I've tried telling you but you resist the idea absolutely. For you, depression is about being sad. You are not sad. You are worried because of all of these problems. Dearest, the problems exist but they are not insurmountable, and they are not equally huge or pressing. You have stopped enjoying life, have stopped enjoying the daily rituals, have stopped enjoying me, your children and yourself.

I love you. I want to help you. I just can't figure out how. I want to help you for yourself, because I love you, but I also want to help you for our family. I tense up the minute you speak to me because I know you will berate me for something. I hate it that you do it in front of the children. I've asked you to change your tone but you feel whatever it is you need to say justifies the tone, no matter who is watching. You are locked in your own world and we can't reach you like we could. And you can't see it. You feel alone, probably put upon, but you are not my dearest, you are not.

How am I going to help you?