It was never this tough before we tied the knot. Sure, I experienced sadness often. I cried frequently and felt like I had no friends. Our wedding day was a psychological mess, with me drowning my anxiety in cocktails to cope with the spotlight. Yet, I was functional. I completed graduate school, even with my undiagnosed ADD sneaking around.
We enjoyed vacations—granted, I managed to spoil the beginning of our Ireland trip with my anxiety, but I bounced back after a few days. We explored Rome twice, fostered rescue dogs, and kayaked thrilling rapids. But then I got pregnant, and everything spiraled out of control. What started as manageable anxiety and a touch of depression transformed into a deep plunge of despair and overwhelming anxiety, rendering me nearly nonfunctional. Medications helped momentarily, but the cycle of struggle continued. I even entered a day-treatment program. My mental health took precedence over everything, including the kids and our marriage, and that’s a heavy burden to carry.
Suddenly, my husband, Tom, found himself juggling multiple roles: single parent, chef, therapist, and caretaker. During my lowest moments, there were times when he essentially became a single parent, even if it was only for a few hours a day. As soon as he burst through the door after work, he was on duty—managing the kids, keeping the house in order, and cooking dinner. I was too drained to do anything but retreat into bed, whether to sleep or cry. The kids clamored for his attention, but I desperately needed him too, so he’d pop on some mindless TV while he tried to soothe me in the back room.
Tom became my rock, holding me when the tears flowed and combating the self-loathing thoughts that haunted me during bouts of depression: “I’m a failure. I’m unlovable. I’m ruining our children.” In those moments, I would realize how unfair it was to place this burden on him. “This isn’t a marriage,” I’d lament. “You’d be better off without me.” I’d even toss around thoughts of divorce—not out of love, but out of a twisted sense of protecting him from my turmoil. All he could do was respond with, “No, no, no. I love you. I love you.” That was his entire toolkit.
Meanwhile, the weight of my threats of divorce was an emotional gut punch for him, leaving him isolated with no one to confide in. One evening, I calmly told him that my mental health struggles would likely end in our separation. Divorce wasn’t an option for us, not just because we’re Catholic but because we genuinely wanted to be together. Still, I threw it out there because it seemed rational, and he had to absorb it, left with nothing but his rebuttal that I was wrong. Who could he tell that his wife was in freefall while he tried to hold everything together?
As he became my steadfast supporter, I morphed into the Patient. I was the one requiring careful navigation, dependent on his presence and reassurance. I was terrified he’d take our children from me, even though he never threatened that. It was an irrational fear, but it felt all too real.
This dynamic created a partnership that felt both dependent and adversarial. I relied on him to keep me stable, which led to resentment bubbling beneath the surface. He loved me and thrived on being needed, but at times he felt frustrated with me for not responding to reason or making progress.
Date nights? Forget about it. By the time he came home, I was completely spent, and just putting on clothes felt like an hour-long ordeal because I “looked fat” in everything. Instead, we salvaged our relationship in small ways. He’d insist we get outside; I couldn’t refuse under the guise of mental health improvement. We’d take the kids on walks, holding hands, and while I hated it initially, those walks turned into lifelines.
We found common ground in shared reading. During a particularly brutal drug withdrawal that sent me spiraling, we both dove into the action-packed Saxon Stories by Bernard Cornwell, a historical series filled with battles and quirky characters. We exchanged inside jokes about fictional warfare, which allowed us to connect and share laughter without the heavy weight of my mental struggles. It could have just as easily been something like The X-Files or Arrested Development. We just needed something to bond over.
And that’s how we forged ahead. Silly jokes about swords like Wasp-Sting and Serpent-Breath kept us afloat and provided a reprieve from my mental anguish. We waited for the medication to take effect, and gradually, things improved. Each time, I found my way back to myself. We shed our temporary roles and re-embraced our identities as partners. Once I started feeling better, we prioritized date nights and intimacy, rediscovering the connection we once had.
How to Survive a Mental Health Crisis in a Marriage
You hold on tight. You step into roles you didn’t know you had. You grapple with resentment, strive for forgiveness, and wait for the storm to pass. You need to believe in your marriage, even when it’s hard, and at least one of you must keep that faith alive, usually the one who’s more stable, until you come out on the other side. Finding shared interests, no matter how trivial, can be a lifeline. Most importantly, you must have faith in each other.
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Summary
Managing a marriage while dealing with mental illness is a complex journey filled with challenges. It requires understanding, patience, and a shared commitment to weathering the storms together. Finding common interests and maintaining open communication can help strengthen the bond during tough times. With love, resilience, and a bit of humor, it’s possible to navigate the ups and downs of mental health challenges while keeping the relationship intact.