Page 38 of Keeping Her Under (Deranged Highway, #1)

I’m no stranger to depression. So when it rears its ugly head in Summer, I know exactly what to do. I don’t abandon her like her mother did. I don’t hit her and blame her like Lance.

Instead, I compliment her constantly to combat the negativity in her head.

I make sure she gets out of the house and socializes even when she doesn’t want to.

“Only five minutes,” I tell her, but we often stay for longer.

Because depression will do that to you; it’ll trick you into thinking that what it wants is what you want.

But I know it for the disease it is, the liar it is.

I take Summer outside for at least half an hour every day.

We walk through the woods, touching the trees.

We sit on the grass and smell the flowers.

Green spaces, fresh air, and sunlight have all been proven to increase our serotonin.

As does exercise and music, so I find all her favorite songs, and I dance with her in our living room.

I make love to her with a special soundtrack playing.

The goal is to rewire and reshape her brain through actions, a neurological physical therapy. Muscle memory of happiness.

Soon, she’s back to herself again. Laughing and smiling and traveling the world with me.

We dance in the ballrooms of Bath during the Jane Austen Festival.

We laugh and make love under the Milky Way in the Outback.

We watch the ballet in the Palais Garnier in Paris.

The acrobats fly in Cirque de Soleil. We get married in our home library, with only Asher and Alina as our witnesses.

For our honeymoon, we visit the most beautiful libraries in the world.

The George Peabody Library in Baltimore, with its cast-iron railings and white Corinthian-style columns stretching up five floors.

The Royal Portuguese Cabinet of Reading down in Brazil, with its Gothic architecture leading to an intricate iron skylight.

The Clementinum in Prague, which opened in 1722, and holds over 20,000 books under ornate painted ceilings.

The Admont Abby in Austria, built in 1074, with books from the eighth century; gold carvings caressing their bookshelves, with secret staircases for the monks.

But by the time we visit the Stiftsbibliothek Sankt Gallen in Switzerland, another depressive episode hits.

“I’m sorry,” she says for one thing after another. And it doesn’t matter how much I tell her it’s okay, she keeps telling me, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“I’m sorry for ruining our honeymoon.”

“I’m sorry for marrying you.”

“I’m sorry for being a burden.”

“I’m sorry for being alive.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

For weeks on end, her depression drags her down. I do all the things I did the first time, and slowly but surely, she comes back to me.

Six months of happiness follows.

Three months of misery.

Four months of joy.

Six months of severe depression.

Two months of the occasional smile.

Ten months of nothing but pain.

And I’m trying to stay positive. To keep getting her up and moving so she doesn’t waste away. I know how hard it is to fight depression once it gets you bedridden.

But this time, it doesn’t matter how much I dance with her or walk with her outside. Nothing I do is working. Therapy doesn’t help either.

She isn’t happy.

Even when I read Pride and Prejudice to her, she wears nothing but a blank stare. And God, I wish for the time when I used to get jealous of Mr. Darcy. Where I could remember what her smile looked like. Because all I see now is misery, and it hurts so damn bad.

But regardless of how terrible it is for me, I know it’s a thousand times worse for her. To be trapped in a mind infected with depression is to lose all sense of who you are. It’s to lose your drive to survive, the mere ability to feel joy. Anhedonia, doctors call it.

A fancy way to say “hell.”

Pulling her into my arms as the night creeps in, I press my lips to her hair. “My love for you hasn’t waned a drop,” I whisper. “It is my honor to take care of you. I love you, Mrs. Slader. Even when the last star fades, my love for you will light up the darkness of space.”

It gets increasingly harder, though, to keep my optimism as the months turn into years. She lashes out at me in anger attacks. She sobs on my shoulder in misery. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I didn’t mean the things I said.”

“I know, baby. It isn’t you. It’s the disease.” I hold her tight, wishing I could reach into her head and pull out all the infected parts.

“Ophiocordyceps unilateralis is nothing but a fungus,” I say.

“Yet, it’s able to convince an ant to leave its nest, climb up the north side of a plant until it’s a foot high, and then lock its jaws into the stem until it dies.

” I stroke her back as I talk. “It does this by affecting the ant’s dopamine, serotonin noradrenaline, and lipocalin proteins, as well as its circadian rhythms. Depression does the same thing, so I know it isn’t you. ”

It’s bio-fucking-warfare.

“You don’t need to apologize, baby. I love you.”

“No, you don’t. You hate me.”

“I don’t. I promise I don’t. I love you, Summer.”

“You’re going to leave me.”

I hug her tighter. “No.”

Desperately, I tell her about the wasps that lay eggs inside of caterpillars.

“Over eighty larvae burst out of it at once, gnawing their way through its skin. But the exoskeletons they shed are crammed into the holes, stopping it from bleeding out. Two of the wasps stay inside the caterpillar’s brain though. ”

“Why?” she asks softly, and I squeeze her hard with tears in my eyes. That simple word is proof that she’s still here with me. I try not to think about how long I have with her before even that is gone.

“So they can release hormones that force the caterpillar into protecting their siblings.” When she doesn’t say anything, I swallow and press on.

“So you see? The brain is easily manipulated. But your depression isn’t you.

You have to remember that. You have to fight it.

” I press a kiss to her head. “Fight it for me, baby. Please.”

For a long moment, she’s quiet. Then she asks, “Does the caterpillar survive?”

“No.”

“I wish I wouldn’t either…”

Choking back my pain, I try not to let her hear me cry.

The first time I found her attempting suicide was in the bathroom. She locked the door and tried to drown herself in the sink. The second time, I was making dinner for her as she sat at the counter. I turned my back on the knife I was using to cut up the vegetables.

One fucking second.

One fucking second of distraction, and I almost lost her.

She begged me to let her finish it as I wrestled the knife off her.

Then she begged me to do it for her. She screamed at me for being selfish.

For hating her. “You’d kill me if you loved me.

Please… please just do it! I don’t want to live anymore.

I hate you. I hate everything. I’m pathetic.

You hate me. I have nothing to live for. ”

I know she doesn’t mean it. I know it’s not her talking. But God, I’m terrified that the third time will be the charm.

“How can you claim you’re trying to help me when you don’t even listen to me!” she shouts. Grabbing a book off the shelf of her library, she throws it at my head. I manage to catch it without damaging it, but the next one slams into the wall behind me, breaking its spine.

“I can’t kill you, Summer!” I cry as I place the book on one of the nightstands.

She picks up a special edition and launches it at me. “Why not? You killed Lance and his girlfriend. Why can’t you kill me? Why don’t you love me?” She swipes a whole shelf of books onto the floor.

“I do love you!” I cry.

“Then help me!” she shrieks. “Please.” She falls to her knees. “Take me to Switzerland. Have mercy.”

“Summer…”

“Please… please!”

I shake my head as I walk towards her. “I can’t.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s the depression –”

“No, it’s not! It’s me! And I hate you! I wish we never got married! I wish I died in the car crash so we never would’ve met!”

“Summer!”

She cries as her anger morphs into pain.

As deep as her words hurt, I know they’re not really hers.

I know she doesn’t mean them. She’s just having an anger attack – a common symptom of depression.

People always focus on the sadness and melancholy, but the easy irritation, the horrible lashing out – they’re about as common as the Hollywood signs.

“Please! Please… I don’t want to live anymore.”

I squat down beside her and wrap my arm around her. Pulling her against my side, I try to push all my love for her into her heart. Maybe I can fight for the both of us…

Maybe this time it’ll actually work.

“If you won’t kill me…” she sobs. “Can you put me back under?” She turns her head to look at me as I freeze. “Put me back in a coma, where I was safe from my thoughts. Please. Please…”

“No,” I say in horror. “We’ll get you more help. I’ll find you another therapist –”

“I don’t want another therapist! I’ve tried your way for years! Nothing stops it! Nothing helps.”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I stare at her twisted pain. I want to tell her to not give up hope yet, that treatment is always advancing.

But I don’t even know if I still have hope.

None of the traditional methods of therapy or drugs are doing a damn thing. Nothing is making the slightest bit of difference. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t laugh. Even these anger attacks are getting rarer and rarer. I’m losing her, and I can’t stop it.

I’ve lost so much weight. I can’t take the time to eat or sleep, so afraid she’ll hurt herself while I’m not paying her attention. I force her to go to the bathroom with me. To shower with me. To sleep practically handcuffed to my wrist.

I’m utterly exhausted. Heavily drained.

I don’t know what I have left in me anymore.

How long can love keep you going?

When is it not enough?