I have been battling depression most of my adult life. I started Paxil about a year ago after trying just about everything else available without success. Aside from the sexual side effects of no libido, I cope. I still have lows that come on for no reason, but I never really experience true joy -- I exist.

This is living? There are myriad reasons: from my conservative southern religious upbringing, to life choices I have made, to things that I probably unaware and never will be. I accept that -- some things I am responsible for, some not.

While neither here nor there, I am also gay. This is not an issue for me and never was. My relationships have brought me, for the most part, love, joy and stability to my life. I have been with my current partner for nearly eighteen years and prior to that my first partner for seven years. Commitment is not the issue here.

I digress.

My current partner was diagnosed Bipolar about 5 years ago. I saw the early signs -- the mood swings -- the psychosis that grew increasingly frequent and severe. Two months ago, he came home more morose than usual, took a half-bottle of Ambien and woke up three days later in intensive care.

This changed everything.

I felt betrayed, abandoned, perplexed, insulted, slapped, hurt, (stabbed)... the list goes on. I've spent the last two months putting 'humpty dumpty' back together again and now I am just -- hollow inside.

Thankfully, he has finally engaged after many weeks of disinterest in helping himself and the medication is working (for now) and for all intents and purposes he seems, and our relationship seems, perfectly normal. It isn't. His psychiatrist has lessened his dose of anti-psychotics and the stupor has given way to a new illusion of reality.

When he touches me affectionately I jump -- he startles me. When he speaks joyfully, I am suspicious -- is it mania? Is it real? I feel completely disconnected, on guard from him, emotionally and physically. He has gained a lot of weight in the past few years partly due to his diabetes. He has often said I must be disgusted by him; sadly, I hate to admit that I am.

I am not blameless. In the past month I have been unfaithful to him on several occasions, but not in the prior eighteen years. I justify my sordid behavior in my own contorted mind as defensible since, had things gone differently I would not be nursing an emotional invalid, I would be widowed and moving on with my life. I am not proud of that fact. But I long happiness, tenderness, hope -- something new and unpredictable -- a fresh start.

Make no mistake, I don't regret calling 911. I am truly glad he didn't succeed and that he is not dead, but in a way he is dead. He has changed. I have changed. Everything has changed.

It is like living with a ghost. The ghost of Derek past (or should it be passed?). A ghost with little memory of his psychosis, a ghost that feigns sorrow for the hell he put me through, but I cannot for the life of me find perspective, connectedness or forgiveness.

Since 2008, we've lost everything except perhaps ourselves: my job, our home, our savings. Now it seems that fate will not be sated without our souls. Who am I to hold court. With my chronic depression I know I have been part of the problem these past years with my worsening mood; the void I could not complete until god gave me that little blue pill (would that I could imagine such nonsense -- I came to terms with my aloneness in this world a long time ago).

I see my therapist of five years every week since 'the incident.' I am mostly angry during my sessions with Neil -- fifty minutes of solace, release, and reflection. In earlier times I would see him monthly or every few weeks depending on life's beligerent beguilements.

My psychiatrist, I see less often as he feels my depression is well managed. Derek sees his psychiatrist (coincidentally the same doctor; their are not many psychiatrist in our health plan in our town) His therapist, Chad, however, I have not met and likely never will as Derek made it clear he had not signed a release as he did with our psychiatrist. Doesn't that sound odd, 'our psychiatrist', that life has come to this?

We don't speak of our outside negotiations with sanity except for cryptic messages to ourselves on the bathroom mirror: 'Be positive,' 'Recognize, Reattribute, Refocus, Review,' '98-percent of what we imagine, never happens.'

His therapist has suggested he not make any decisions about our relationship for three months -- the clock is ticking. I am waiting.

Well, you get the idea?