I grew up with a physically and emotionally abusive mother and a distant father. Did that make me more likely to excuse how he treats me? I don't know. And I recognize that, on good days, he's not a bad husband. We are best friends and have so much in common when he's Dr. Jekyll and not Mr. Hyde.

I know that he lashes out at me because he feels safe with me, that he sees my love as unconditional and it leeches out some of the bile he otherwise directs at himself. But he doesn't see the erosion of self I am feeling. He doesn't realize that every episode of his telling me what I've done wrong chews away at my motivation to right our collective ship. I wish I could sink into bed as much as he does. I wish I could rail at him the way he does at me. And, yes, I know he has a mental illness, but I feel like he's created one in me as well.

I'm starting to indulge in my favorite form of self-torture: foregoing self care. I'm not eating properly and I know that's stupid. I'm not showering enough and haven't worn makeup in days. I have a meeting to go to in an hour and then have a school event this evening, so I'll make myself shower and dress and even put on makeup. I'll go out for dinner with my in-laws and family and pretend that it's not all falling apart.

I try and remind myself that this is not all the time. I try to remember the times that his depression was much less than it is now. I try in vain to remember a time about a year ago when he was actually in a really good place. I try not to cringe as I hear myself apologizing over and over for my transgressions—going back to sleep this morning because I had a headache and that meant he didn't get up early is the latest. I try not to think about the damage this is causing to my girls—hearing their mother constantly apologizing and their father yelling and berating me. What kind of future are we creating for them? Will they end up in relationships with damaged partners because they think that's the norm?

I'm not being abused and I don't want to call it that or anything like that, but being the caregiver is really fucking hard. Especially when it's an invisible illness. If he had cancer or even a broken leg there would be friends and family bringing us dinners and asking me what they could do to help. Sharing our plight would be seen as natural. Instead, with mental illness, I put on a mask and hide my reality.

We've lived in our house for over a decade and there are neighbors who have never met my husband. I don't know what they think and I don't really care, but being an extrovert married to a depressed introvert has changed me over the years. I don't socialize as much as I used to, some of that is probably just age, but I know a lot of it is being with someone who hides from the world. I fear that rather than my drawing him out into the light, I've retreated into his cave with him.

The few people with whom I've shared what we're going through ask me what they can do, but I can't ask for help with the house because he wouldn't want anyone else around to see our shame. I worry about making plans to go out with friends because (1) I really can't afford to spend money and (2) while he held down the fort to a basic extent when I went away last month for five days (the first time I've ever left without my MIL coming to take care of the girls), I've felt the ramifications of it the last few weeks as he's spiraled deeper and deeper. The reality is that the one thing we need is money. And that's the one thing I can't ask for because it's too embarrassing.

This is getting harder and harder. This is my marriage of more than two decades to a man who has suffered from depression and anxiety for more than three decades. This is my life of being financially dependent on a person who has now decided that his career is a big part of his continuing depression and he needs to go in a totally different path because to do otherwise would be unauthentic. This is my being blamed for everything I do that he tells me contributes to his depression. This is my going through major surgeries and the death of my mother but not being able to count on him to do the simplest household task like fill the dishwasher—thank God for paper plates and plastic cups. This is my questioning every decision I've made as an adult that has led me to today.

I'm certainly not blameless for the state of affairs, but this is life being married to someone with severe depression who was able to mask it enough just long enough that even with all the ups and downs, even with the number of times I had to talk him off the ledge, even with the jobs he left at the drop of a hat, even with financial mismanagement on both of our parts, even then I thought that stopping working full time and staying home with our children was a good idea. I fucked up big time and the chickens are coming home to roost.

This is my realizing that I can't count on him and I need to figure out a way to create a life for myself and my children that doesn't rely on him contributing a single dime or any time. This is my questioning if I can stay with him at least until my children are out of high school (6 1/2 years). This is my hoping that even though his parents have said they won't give us financial support if he leaves his career that they would at least supplement us because there's no way I can make what he was making but maybe if they see me trying my best they will do it for the sake of their grand-children. This is my wondering how in the fuck I'm supposed to find and hold down a full-time job when he demands hours of my time almost every day in ruminating conversations. This is my wishing I could say all of this bluntly to his parents so they know what's it's been like for 25+ years, so they could realize that if I hadn't been in the picture, their son would be dead and maybe I deserve some consideration for that.

This is trying to make changes for my future.