Canferatu VS The Depression Devil

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One night last week Canferatu possessed my intestinal tract. The inhuman noises growled low and deep, as surely once awake, I’d look in the bathroom mirror to find I’d become vampiric, zombified, even bloodless. Only the undead, at least in movies, moan as though they’ve contracted a case of projectile diarrhea. Further proof of my dance with the devil’s own son, the sounds indicated subsequent sharply intense pain each time the idea or slightest notion of eating or drinking entered my mind. I never knew 25 feet of tubing could sound so evil.

Why the thunder from down under? Invariably, this abdominal symphony of the undead crescendoed every single time the husband became angry with me or yelled. It’s decibel rating increased to 11 on a scale of 1 – 10, somewhat like Nigel Tufnel’s guitar amp goes to 11 in “Spinal Tap.”

Some days Craig’s monster depression devil slips an itchy gray Soviet-issued wool military sweater onto his already uncomfortable skin. Its on those occasions when to simply “touch” my husband could bring on a fight to the death between Canferatu and Depression Devil. What this all means is I will not be touched by anyone more than the occasional friendly hug for days, weeks, or in worse times, months on end.

Yes, relationships can wither and possibly die without physical intimacy. Every book, every psychiatrist or psychologist, and anybody who has been married will agree that the three ingredients that keep a relationship together are friendship, trust, and sex. All three elements have to be in place although sometimes not in equal parts. It’s even more frustrating because we used to have an amazing relationship. Since his depression hit hard, he rarely talks to me about anything substantial, we don’t go out alone together, and we certainly don’t have sex but once in a while. Oh but he does yell at me. That’s so comforting…to know I’ll get yelled at…

Detrimental to my health, a lack of physical intimacy can decrease my lifespan, and is scientifically proven to increase my rate of mortality by 50%. (I don’t know if it’s 50% but seems good enough number to plug in for the purpose of this blog post.) It also bothers me that instead of reading a book on depression or cancer he’s solving his past marriage psychological fallout and is reading, “Walking on Eggshells,” a book I gave him a number of years ago. It’s an excellent resource to help people who have had any sort of relationship with these inhumane, vampiric assholes who suffer from borderline personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. And he leaves the book out to annoy the living shit out of me. Actually, I know it’s not purposely left around to eat away at my cellular structure, but it certainly feels that way sometimes.

Anyone can get lured into relationships with these soul suckers. As long as you’re a good source for what they want and don’t have any needs of your own, they will pretend to love you. But never call them on a lie, a trick, or their own self aggrandizement. You’ll be sorry. I was made to suffer at the ugliness of my mother’s NPD symptoms, and I suppose that’s why I’m immediately sensitive to feeling my love being yo-yo’d by my husband’s depression fallout.

Feeling nauseous and in a tremendous amount of pain this past week, my mood shall we say, just hasn’t been at it’s perky best. I’m becoming very wary of the situation as it stands. Oh, there are good days. Today wasn’t a good day since Canferatu decided to do horrible painful things to my left leg and I ran out of actual ability to stand up anymore. After our dinner guests left about 11:00 pm, my body was simply too exhausted to get out of bed at all. I slept until 9 last evening and will reset my circadian clock and sleep at a normal hour tonight; I’m feeling a little better and sometimes, less is more.

Hey, many thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next installment of my adventures with Canferatu.

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