Adultery Read Free Page A

know what life is like down there right now.”
    Why did you put up with it for so many years?
    “Because I didn’t believe I could be depressed. And because whenever I talked about it with you or with other friends, everyone said it was nonsense, that people with real problems don’t have time to feel depressed.”
    It’s true, that’s exactly what I said.
    I insist: Wouldn’t an article or a blog help people to better cope with the illness and seek help? I’m not depressed myself, of course, and don’t know how it feels. Could she tell me a bit about it?
    My friend hesitates, perhaps suspicious of my motives.
    “It’s like being inside a trap. You know you’re caught, but you can’t escape …”
    That’s exactly what I felt a few days ago.
    She starts listing a whole series of things that are apparently common to those who have visited what she calls “hell.” Not wanting to get out of bed. Feeling that the simplest of tasks requires a Herculean effort. Being riddled with guilt because you have no reason to feel like this when there are so many people in the world who are really suffering.
    I try to concentrate on the excellent food, but it has already started to lose its flavor. My friend goes on:
    “Apathy. Pretending to be happy, pretending to be sad, pretending to have an orgasm, pretending to be having fun, pretending that you’ve slept well, pretending that you’re alive. Until there comes a point where you reach an imaginary red line and realize that if you cross it, there will be no turning back. Then you stop complaining, because complaining means that you are at least still battling something. You accept the vegetative state and try to conceal it from everyone. And that’s hard work.”
    And what caused your depression?
    “Nothing in particular. But why so many questions? Are you feeling depressed, too?”
    Of course not!
    Best to change the subject.
    We talk about the politician I’m going to interview in a couple days’ time. He’s an ex-boyfriend of mine from high school who probably doesn’t even remember that we once exchanged a few kisses and that he touched my breasts.
    My friend is thrilled. I, on the other hand, try not to think about anything, keeping my reactions set to automatic.
    Apathy. I haven’t yet reached that stage. I’m still at the complaining one, but I imagine that soon—in a matter of months, days, or hours—a complete lack of interest will set in that will be very hard to dispel.
    It feels like my soul is slowly leaving my body and headingoff to an unknown place, some “safe” place where it doesn’t have to put up with me and my night terrors. It’s as if I weren’t sitting in an ugly Japanese restaurant with delicious food, experiencing everything as though it were just a scene in a film I’m watching, without wanting—or being able—to stop it.

I WAKE up and perform the usual rituals—brushing my teeth, getting dressed for work, going into the children’s bedroom to wake them up, making breakfast for everyone, smiling, and saying how good life is. In every minute and gesture I feel a weight I can’t identify, like an animal who can’t quite understand how it got caught in the trap.
    My food has no taste. My smile, on the other hand, grows even wider so that no one will suspect, and I swallow my desire to cry. The light outside seems gray.
    Yesterday’s conversation did no good at all; I’m starting to think that I’m headed out of the indignant phase and straight into apathy.
    And does no one notice?
    Of course not. After all, I’m the last person in the world to admit that I need help.
    This is my problem; the volcano has exploded and there’s no way to put the lava back inside, plant some trees, mow the grass, and let the sheep out to graze.
    I don’t deserve this. I’ve always tried to meet everyone’s expectations. But now it’s happened and I can’t do anything about it except take medication. Perhaps today I’ll come up with an