mortified by the insidious way my suffering has contaminated our home. Itâs been just one week since my crash, and already apprehension hangs in the air, sadness frames every doorway, stress creeps into each room. I blame myself for dragging my family down, leading them to the edge of this dark holeâthe portal to my depression. Where they watch me picking at my food, searching for my snapshot and Lucky One liberation. And where I watch them carry on.
Since I am out of commission, Bergen launches into rescue modeâtaking care of everything and everyone but himself. My heart sinks as I catch glimpses of him rushing from room to room, up and down the stairs, in and out of the house. Heâs like a whirling dervish, spinning from chore to chore. Cooking meals. Washing laundry. Buying groceries. Walking Nellie. Cleaning the house. Helping Naomi. Saving meâor whoever I am now. Iâm certainly not the wife I once was. Or the mother. The guilt is excruciating. I can barely make eye contact with Naomi. The poor kid. Itâs tough enough being thirteen and trying to fit in at high school while keeping her grades up. Now, in addition to all that, she has to endure living under the same roof with a catatonic Cry Lady and a frantic father who wonât allow her to escape this nightmare and go live at a friendâs house. Even though she has several invitations and her suitcase is packed.
I CONFESS : Iâm one of those people who write lists. All types, from the classic to-do list to the clandestine ex-lovers list. And no matter how mundane or insane they seem, these inventories are useful devices. They help keep the fridge stocked, the house clean, the dreams wet, the bills paid. And Iâm hoping that this list Iâm about to write will help me make it through this bleak September day.
Itâs titled âOne Hundred Reasons Not to Kill Myself.â Itâs one of the many therapeutic exercises in this self-help book Iâm reading. Iâve never written a list like this before. But Iâm willing to give it a try, even if it means tossing out the other list Iâve been secretly compiling. The one called âBergenâs New and Improved Wife.â Already Iâve jotted down the names of several potential candidates to replace me when Iâm gone. These women are all wonderfulâI wouldnât care which one he chooses. The only thing I really care about is that Bergen find happiness in the arms of another womanâpreferably someone with two swinging arms.
Turning my attention to this new list, I pick a fresh page in my journal so that thereâs plenty of space to jot down my one hundred reasons to stick around. I write the title at the top, numbers down the side, and begin. Within minutes, I sense the futility of compiling this listâI am, after all, feeling listless. Within an hour, I know I am not only depressed but am also demented. No matter how hard I concentrate, the same solitary reason keeps popping into my head. And it isnât profound or practical or religious or romanticâit isnât even hygienic. Reluctantly, I scribble it down: âNellie licking my feet.â
She loves to lick them, and they love being licked, but declaring my dogâs tongue bathing my ticklish feet to be the only thing worth living forâwell, thatâs just shameful. Iâm sure I have more relevant reasons. I just have to think of them. Eventually, I come up with number 2: âThe taste of dark chocolate.â Now I am frantic. What about the people I love? My family? My friends? What if someone reads this list? What will they think?
In a state of panic, I pick up my pen and quickly add Naomi and Bergen to the list. I breathe a sigh of relief, having corrected my oversight. And then the panic returns as it dawns on me, Iâve just made the list even more deplorable. The sequencing is all wrong. What kind of person ranks a dog footbath higher