Joe

Not long after his forty-eighth birthday, my husband Joe began to act strangely. He'd been a moody guy as long as I'd known him, occasionally going through short periods of crankiness and lethargy. This was different. Now, he was angry all the time, particularly angry at me, but not for any specific thing that I'd done. As well, he stopped doing the things that he enjoyed. His woodwork shop in the basement gathered dust, and he sat at the computer playing endless games of solitaire, and to top it off, he'd lost all interest in sex. When I suggested that something was wrong, he threw a tantrum, and told me to mind my own business.

I had the opportunity to talk to one of my closest friends, who's an RN, about Joe. She was almost certain that the problem was depression.

"He should get his ass to his doctor, and get some antidepressants, if it is depression." is what she told me.

I sat down with Joe that evening and tried to discuss the issue. I got the same angry response as I did the first time I'd tried to talk to him.

Life at home was bloody near unbearable. He'd been like this for almost six months, and I'd had just about enough. The final straw was when he slapped me in the middle of an argument that started when I tried for the ninety-ninth time to persuade him to see his doctor. He'd never raised his hand to me in the twenty-six years we'd been together. I went up to our bedroom and packed a bag and left, slamming the door behind me.

My sister and her husband put me up in their spare room for a week, until I found a small apartment. In the meantime, Joe found out where I was staying and phoned continually. In the one conversation I had with him, I told him that we could talk more once he'd been to see his doctor. "There's nothing wrong with me, Goddamn it!"

What a stubborn fool. After several weeks he stopped calling, but I got regular updates on how he was making out from our older daughter, who was making sure he ate properly. I don't know why, but I still loved the big idiot, and wanted to know that he was OK.

Despite the fact that he was still my husband and I still loved him, I decided to accept when a casual acquaintance asked me for a date. The second time we met, I let him take me to his place after our evening out. I hadn't had anything resembling affection from a man for almost eight months, so it wasn't hard for me to let go and ask him to make love to me. We fucked up a storm, and then woke up in the middle of the night and did it again. He wasn't particularly well endowed, but was a skillful lover, and really rang my chimes. I felt only slightly guilty.

We continued to see each other for a month or so, but it ended when his employer moved him to the east coast to open a new branch office. I was on my own again. I was introduced to a several men by my friends, and I started seeing a couple of them occasionally. Neither knew about the other. One was younger, and sex with him was great, not because he was a good lover, but simply that he was very enthusiastic and had good stamina. Peter, the other one, was a good deal older than me, and had some difficulty maintaining an erection, but was otherwise a patient and loving guy. Viagra helped a lot. He was much more grateful for my company than Karl, who tended to be arrogant at times. Peter and I cared a great deal for each other.

About that time I got the shock of my life, when my daughter called to tell me that Joe had been taken to hospital earlier in the day after swallowing a bottle of pills, and had almost died.

I rushed to the hospital to find him sedated and restrained to the bed. I sat with him though the night, and talked with his doctor in the morning, and told him the whole story. Once Joe recovered sufficiently, Dr. Grannville was able to talk some sense into him, and referred him to a psychiatrist. Thank God!

The shrink diagnosed Joe with clinical depression and got him started on a couple of meds, but it took some time before they were effective. In the meantime, Joe called me regularly; initially, to apologize for his stubborn behavior, and then later to ask when I would be moving back into the house. I told him that I'd have to wait to see how he made out with the medication before I made that move. He asked me to go out for a meal with him, and we went to our favorite place for dinner. He asked to see my apartment, so I invited him up for a drink. He couldn't mix alcohol with the antidepressants, so we just had coffee, then I showed him around. The drawer on my nightstand was open when I showed him the bedroom and he saw the box of condoms I kept handy. He blew up at me.

"Do I look like a fucking nun, Joe? You're the one who killed our love life. I hadn't been laid for three quarters of a year when I left you. What did you think I'd be doing, crocheting doilies?" I asked him.

When he settled down, he agreed that it wasn't reasonable to expect me to stay celibate forever because he couldn't get interested in sex while depressed. He asked if I was in love.

"Yes, I am. I'm in love with you, you big dope." I kissed him.

Now that he was working at fixing his problem, he wanted to know if I would be ending my relationships with Karl and Peter. I told him that I would make that decision if and when I moved back in with him.

"In the meantime, there's nothing stopping you from asking me out. Maybe you'll get lucky." I suggested with a smile.

It took a good six weeks for the pills to have any significant effect, and even though he was feeling much better overall, Joe still had difficultly with sex. The doctor had told him up front that it was a potential side effect, and that if it was a problem, they could try a different kind of antidepressant, which he did. During that time, I continued to see Peter, but had broken it off with Karl. He was too difficult to deal with. As well, Ben, my first lover, had returned home for a short vacation and I spent a weekend in bed with him.

Aside from a few minor side effects from the medications, Joe was back to being his lovable self again. Sex was still a problem, but one I was willing to live with. I took Joe out for dinner one evening and told him that I was ready to come home, and he was very pleased. He told me that he assumed I was giving up my other lovers. I told that there was a good possibility that I'd continue to see Ben whenever he came to town, but that might would only be a couple of times a year. He wasn't really happy with my answer, and I reminded him that it was his doing that caused me to take up with these other men in the first place. He agreed.

"I know that if I hadn't been so pig-headed, and gone to Dr. Grannville when you first asked me to, none of this would have happened. I'm the one who drove you away." He said.

I love Joe dearly, and we've been getting along well together at home. He has the occasional day or two when he's down in the dumps, and I try to help him as best I can. We're now having sex at least as often as we did before this all started, and we've always been very good in bed together.

He now understands that I'd formed a strong friendship with Ben, and is OK with me spending a night or two with him when he comes to town. He knows we're not in love. The two of them have met and respect one another. I don't hide any of what I do with Ben from Joe, but keep it very private otherwise. I'd never go behind his back or do anything that would humiliate him.

Men tend to avoid seeking help when ill, and my experience with my husband, Joe, is a perfect example. It plainly demonstrates why it's not a good trait.