kerouac says

i've been crafting this long post about Magic Bean Pills for awhile, but it's not ready. i did want to say, though, that i had a realization the other day:

i'm not afraid of being a depressed parent.

i grew up with one depressed parent and one whose emotional status was sort of terminally unknown. when there aren't any other siblings around, that makes the ratio of depressed people to children uncomfortably high, especially when you don't count the dog, who unquestionably had the best mental health of anyone in the house.

my mom never found her way into effective therapeutic intervention for her depression. she's continued to live a sometimes-more, sometimes-less hampered life, and while at times it exasperates me to no end, she really does seem to be at peace with the level of functioning she's got going on. and who am i to say it's absolutely necessary to plumb the depths? what's necessary is to cope, and she's doing it. she's mostly satisfied with the status quo. i look at her, though, and i think: not me. i do not want ever to think that sort of life is good enough.

i got help earlier than my mother did. i had the blessed convenience of better drugs. and i didn't endure any of the catastrophic loss that's marked her life. also, signs point to my being a little bit crazier than her, which i think makes said crazy harder to hide and more imperative to treat, resulting in a quality of life that is actually potentially better.

i've always been afraid that my eventual kid would start life out with the burden of a depressed parent, and all the concomitant debilitating responsibility. i'm not worried about that right now. the worry might come back, but i have to say: every sign points to yes right now, in the big Louella Vs. The Crazy battle. i'm seriously winning. and i'm starting to feel hard core healthy, like i'm gaining the mental health equivalent of bone mass and long muscle fibre.

i know people who've reached this sort of contentment, and then something happened and their meds stopped working. i am still a little bit afraid of that, but. what you gonna do?

i mention this all because, as the couples therapy continues to work wonders in the magnificent stretchy goodness that binds me to the monkey, we find that the monkey is compaining of an inexplicable sadness, a desire not to leave the house, a difficulty sleeping, a general wash of grey.

uh-oh.

i haven't freaked out. and having had a ringside seat for the most recent bout of LvsTC, the monkey has dutifully taken action to combat the blue that's washing over his chin. but it turns out--irony!--i am not that good at being a depressed person's partner. i am oddly impatient. i want him to, you know, stop it. i miss the happy guy i moved in with, and am absurdly tempted to take the loss out on him. he gets drippy and clingy, and i get . . . vaguely pissed. even though he's doing all the right things.

i know this is retarded. i'm busily slapping some sense into myself. the whole thing just surprised me. who knew i was such a bad husband?

we're dealing. nothing too major is going down. but i see him doing this dance i know all the steps to--this morning, he stood with his hand on the doorknob for a full minute before he left, screwing up his courage to leave the apartment. oh, heartbreak. i know this feeling. and i wish i could clip it right off his back.

time. time, time, time.

and sometimes, magic bean pills.