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To say I am an optimistic person is like saying Lady Gaga has some interesting outfits. I am the real-life incarnation of Pollyanna. I am so upbeat it can be annoying to some people (most notably, my teenage son). I can’t help it. It’s scientific. A group of behavioral researchers did a study years ago that showed that every person has his or her own predetermined level of happiness. No matter what happens, the person eventually returns to this happiness level.  You win the lottery? Sure, your level goes up … for a while. Then it bounces back to whatever normal is for you. Your partner dies suddenly? The level drops – dramatically and perhaps even continuously. But eventually your level of happiness returns to its original state, or at least pretty darn close.

Of course, I’ve had my ups and downs; days when I’m blue or a little out of sorts. There was a three-month period during my senior year in college when I could barely drag myself to class. I also know what it’s like to have hormones playing havoc – making me cry for no reason during adolescence (and again, these days, during the joy of perimenopause.) 

But still, I was particularly unprepared for a life married to a man with clinical depression.

To tell you the truth, even my husband didn’t know how bad he felt until he started feeling good.

Our marriage was one of the most difficult and most enlightening experiences either one of us has ever had.  Over the first six months, we learned about my husband’s perfect storm of disorders: depression, anxiety and drug use.  Who’s to say which came first? They are often diagnosed together, and often – as in Jon’s case – many years after they have taken up permanent residence in our thoughts, personalities and actions.  

For much of my early marriage, I was overwhelmed by the reality of the man I had married – a man who, when not exhibiting emotional upheaval, was brilliant, funny, good-hearted, creative and a talented musician. But those days were halved by the shadows of depression, despair and sometimes nearly paralyzing anxiety.

I got a glimpse of these feelings myself; living day-in and day-out with Jon made me anxious, too. And sad. And lonely.

I kept a journal during that decade; through the changes in the appearance of my handwriting you can easily see me go from happy and hopeful to furious and fearful; my large, loopy cursive transforms into two-inch-high four-letter-word rants that leave deep indentations on the pages. 

I once asked Jon to explain to me what his depression felt like. I remember his answer exactly:

“You know how normal people look at a skyscraper and wonder how tall it is? People like me look at that skyscraper and wonder how long it would take from the time you jump off the top until you hit the ground.”

Perhaps Jon was born without his level of happiness. Or maybe it was permanently retracted when his father died when Jon was only 13 years old. Maybe it was the words he heard – or didn’t hear – from his mother as she struggled with her own demons. But no matter what we did, or how happy Jon sometimes felt, he said he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Living with someone with this kind of depression means worrying about him every time he got in his car. Would he get in a road fight? Would he be under the influence?  Our home was often filled with tip-toeing – literally and figuratively. It was not only because my husband slept a lot – one of the avoidance mechanisms of depression and anxiety -- but also because I tip-toed around feelings, conversations and requests that would have been completely appropriate in a healthy marriage. Making no conversation and making no demands made for a quiet, cautious and ultimately unsustainable equilibrium.

The best thing we did for our relationship was to end our marriage. Within months, on his own initiative, Jon did something he never attempted during our 13 years of marriage and couples’ counseling: he got help at a rehab facility just outside of Atlanta.  There, he learned that he could participate in a dual track of healing: one for substance abuse, one for depression.

We all participated – me, our son, Jon’s family, and to some extent, our close friends. We listened. We learned. We supported. We went to meetings. We cried. I prayed.

I believe that Jon’s immersion in rehab, and the program’s excellent dual track, healed my ex-husband, saved my son’s father, and taught me how to love Jon as a friend – without codependency or a desire to control the future. Jon broke the cycle of boys in his family growing up without fathers; of people in his family growing up without abusing drugs. This healthier Jon is one of the most thoughtful, involved and present fathers I know.

It might sound extraordinary – that my ex is one of my best friends. Let me assure you that it never would have happened if we had not done all the work we did during our marriage … during rehab … and the support we continue to give post-divorce.  But most of all, it never would have happened if God did not ironically match this die-hard optimist with a man who needed unconditional love and hope more than anyone I’ve ever known.

Ginger is a 20-year veteran corporate writer in Atlanta, and most recently, the former national web editor at skirt!, www.skirt.com. She is a blogger for Huffington Post’s divorce vertical (www.huffingtonpost.com/divorce) and skirt.com, the mother of a 16-year-old son, and the author of the hilarious and helpful book, “Back On Top: Fearless Dating After Divorce.” She is a regular ShareWIK.com columnist, and has been featured in More.com, Glamour.com, LovingYou.com and several other women-centric media. 

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