He eventually went on anti-depressants and began seeing a therapist, but he refused to tell me anything about what he was thinking, and I was on the outside. From the outside, it looked like his depression was getting worse....he wasn't behaving as if he was suicidal, but aside from that he looked miserable. I begged him to ask for help with his depression, to change his meds to something more effective, to talk to his therapist about how things were really going....and he told me, "You just want me to be a zombie!" Uhhh, what? No, I want you to be happy....but he told me that I just wanted him to be on drugs that made him a zombie. (Sadly, in the seven years since then, his depression has only worsened as far as I can tell. He continues to have unhealthy behaviors, self-medicating with food, alcohol, and video games. He sleeps during the day, he's lost touch with close friends, and he's withdrawn from many people. This makes me genuinely sad for him, but I am not able to help, for reasons I still don't understand.)
It was hard to talk to friends about it, too. I put a happy face on, and I told people that I would be okay, and that it was a tough time, but that I loved him and he loved me and that's what mattered the most. I read my blog posts from that time, when I was not being anonymous (I've learned my lesson: this is anonymous because I want it to be deeply authentic, no "putting on a happy face" when that's not true), and I sound so chipper and upbeat that I envy the person that wrote those posts, because surely it wasn't ME - I was terrified, and I felt so alone, and the blog makes it sound like things were going swimmingly between us.