Dearest,

Knowing what's wrong doesn't make it any easier to live with you sometimes. Because sometimes I forget. Things have been better, but sometimes I forget that "better" is not the same thing as "well." And when I forget, I am blindsided by your anger, which seems to come from nowhere, by your aggression, which seems disproportionate, by your distance, which seems sudden and inexplicable.

We had a very good week last week. Very good. So good, in fact, that I deluded myself into thinking that all was well, forever. On Friday a friend came to visit. You made us sandwiches. My friend was amazed. I was amazed. And proud. And deliriously happy. Then, suddenly, on Sunday morning, your mood changed completely. You were short-tempered, difficult, angry. Nothing I did was right. Nothing I said went uncommented. But by evening you had mellowed, and I thought " whew, what a relief, it was just a flash in the pan."

But no. I should know better. It was merely a flash of things to come. Today you finally made me cry again. Correction: today I finally let you make me cry again. I didn't let you see it. I know that much now - I would not have gotten the response I wanted and, in your current dark state, would have made your own anger escalate. So I left, and went to our room, and gave myself exactly three minutes to let it out, and then carried on. I avoided you until I had to leave, and then I kissed you goodbye. Because I love you. Because I am beginning to learn how to manage this.

The trick is to not respond logically to your illogic. And, love, today you were so illogical that I'm surprised I let myself be hurt. At least I had the sense to leave before you saw me crying.

One thing about depression (and I know this happened to me too when I was in its throes) is how it distorts nut just current perception but memory. In what you said to me you had no memory of the blissful week we had together. And you had erased enormous swathes of time to bring up an argument we had well over a month ago, which was since resolved, with much water under the bridge after. It was bizarre. I looked at you, and listened to you, and felt very Twilight-zonish. You were speaking but the way you were saying things and drawing conclusions made absolutely no sense. That's when I realized that your dark clouds were back, and that you are not cured. That this is not over, not by a long chalk. That my best hope is to get you to a doctor, but that I have to work on getting you to that receptive state again. Or waiting until you get there.

This is hard. I am so lonely. I need a husband. The problem is, love, I don't want anybody else but you. But man am I lonely.