I got into bed more exhausted than I could remember, it wasn't just today but the weeks leading up to it that had drained me. Leaning over I checked on my sleeping wife and could hear her breathing as she slept. Laying back down I closed my eyes and sighed, the woman laying next to me, I didn't recognise.
I'd been with her for half my life yet over the last weeks and months she was becoming a stranger. Gone was the fun loving girl with such a love for living, the careing mother who always had time for our children. Here was an empty shell getting through each day, not even careing if she did.
I thought the worst day was when she walked into the kitchien with blood dripping from the cuts on her arms, an empty look in her eyes as I grabbed a tea towel to wrap around the self inflicted wounds before rushing her out to the car and the local A&E department. Sure on the way she had cried and appologised through wracking sobs as I assured her it would by fine, as I said the words they felt like a lie. I didn't know if she would be fine, I was out of my depth and trying to understand things with endless internet searches and books from the library.
In a strange way that helped matters as the doctors took things more serious. From being told she needed to pull her socks up and get on with things she got medication and a referal to see a mental health specialist. We had been waiting two months now and every time I did the school run I was scared of what I would find when I got home.
Then one morning my fears were proved true, as I checked on her I saw the empty blisterpacks of tablets by the bed. She was still concious but her words were slurred as she admitted taking the tablets. The paramedic arrived pretty quick, the sound of sirens coming down the street so welcome as I tried to keep her talking and the fear from my voice.
By luck she hadn't found enough of the tablets to cause serious harm and the advice was to let her sleep them off while I was given a number for the mental health crisis team and told to phone them. It had been weeks since she had gotten up for more than a toilet trip so telling the kids when they got home that mum was still feeling poorley and to not bother her had become normal. Young kids adapt and don't question so it was easy to hide how bad she was, well it was as hard as hell but I had to protect them.
Once the kids were in bed I'd sit downstairs alone and have a drink, I'd had to stop working and bills were piling up and I was alone to deal with things. You can't go around telling people the truth, they wouldn't understand, hell Social Services would be streight in looking at taking the kids away.
Yet telling someone was exactly what we had to do.
It wasn't an instant fix, some magic wand waved and everything got better. It was two years of fighting to get the government financial help we'd been paying taxes for while we both worked, fighting the medical experts to get a diagnosis I'd already worked out, setting up repayment plans to cover debts. After that it's been more years of looking out for warning signs, enjoying the good times but being prepared for the bad to return.
The thing with mental illness is its a disease, not something to hide away but something that you need to reach out and get help for. Things can get better and a more normal life can be had, you can even stop seeing a stranger when you look at your loved one.