The irony was not lost on me when my house’s foundation went to shit and my marriage’s foundation dropped out at the same time.

We discovered both in the course of about two months. First, cracks in the walls were slowly coming back, one quickly becoming a jagged fracture in the wall our bedroom. You could say the same for my spouse and I as well. These cracks were old cracks we patched when we first bought the house; as part of the negotiations, we asked that the foundation be repaired, so we assumed the cracks were a result of the repair and thought nothing more of them. Once we realized that the foundation was failing, and the original repairs not sufficient long term, the cracks became a symbol of youthful ignorance of the basic physics of pier-and-beam foundations.

Our cracks were hidden under a mask of civility and to be perfectly honest, my own martyrdom. You see, our entire courtship was witnessed by our recovery programs and our foundation was a mutually agreed upon perspective of recovery: go to meetings, stay connected, work the steps. When we wed ten years ago, we couldn’t fathom the concept that our recovery would undergo drastic challenges and changes, causing an unspoken rift and resentment of the other for “doing it wrong”. Our ignorance of the physics of the human condition and capacity for change was on display.

Over probably the past five or six years, maybe more, my spouse was experiencing a deep, long-term depressive episode. The symptoms were similar to those of an addict or alcoholic about to relapse: isolation, emotional disconnects, self-centered thinking, unaware of the impact of behaviors. Before it dawned on me what was really happening, I used to beg and plead him to get back into the rooms of recovery and reconnect with people that he had lost. I told him he needed to get a sponsor and rework the steps to assess himself and sort out the root of his problems. I cried during these discussions, telling him that this version of him was not the man I married and that he could find that man again by going back to the basic actions that made him so attractive to me in the first place. I cringe looking back at my own selfish behavior - pushing him to do my bidding to fit my vision of him.

We figured out that it was a mental health crisis through a depression survey that I had taken for myself; I felt so insane and unhappy that I assumed I was the problem and I needed to reassess my health. Screaming at me on the page were a majority of my husband’s symptoms.

He sought help, getting both a therapist and on medication through a general practitioner, then through a psychiatrist. Over the course of a two year period, I remained patient and supportive, assuming that the right therapy session and medication cocktail would restore him to the man I married. I had run the household finances for so long that I continued to shoulder that burden as he recovered, trying to give him space to focus on bettering himself. Home maintenance and repairs, and child affairs continued to fall on me, again to give him space. I wouldn’t let myself get resentful. I pictured myself as the brave wife carrying the weight of the world to allow her husband to find health.

On gratitude lists I celebrated his small accomplishments and shoved down each and every shitty feeling I had about his recovery process, trying to be supportive of his journey. I, in my own mind, gently pushed him to again reconnect to recovery programs and friends, and to his credit, he would for a few weeks. Then he’d stop. I assumed his depression was so severe that he wasn’t able to commit to that level of recovery yet. I channeled my frustrations into making our world even softer for him. Clearly he has such a burden that he is still unable to communicate, I need to lighten the load.

As we fielded quotes for a full pier-and-beam foundation replacement, I started to get resentful. Already I had taken care of everything; could he perhaps take some of this burden, researching contractors, setting up bid meetings, learning what the hell a HELOC was and if it was the right move?

Internal cracks grew jagged.

One night, after another failed attempt to guilt and goad him back into the rooms, I asked him outright: was he done with his recovery programs? He said yes, that he had been discussing this with his therapist for a while now, trying to figure out how best to tell me.

Jagged cracks became gaping gaps in the walls.

I was blindsided and devastated. The justification of anger grew. We agreed that recovery was our foundation, and in my mind, that was a very narrow definition of recovery. Clearly my husband was on the road to relapse, and his therapist was his chief enabler. Did she not understand that this is relapse behavior? Did she not get that I NEEDED him to be in the same recovery rooms as me in order to be his wife? We agreed that our recovery program was our life when we married. He is violating the terms of the agreement. AND WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT ABOUT HIM BEING CAPABLE OF MAKING EXECUTIVE DECISIONS WHEN HE WILLFULLY IGNORED EVERY OTHER EXECUTIVE DECISION ABOUT OUR LIFE TOGETHER. IS THE MOTHERFUCKER NOT DEPRESSED ANYMORE?

Foundation failure.

Another honest moment came to light: He didn’t identify as being in active depression anymore. He just didn’t want to make the effort in our marriage. This was insult to injury: Not only was I the monster that couldn’t be communicated with about what he needed, but I was the wife that didn’t deserve a partner.

I spent over a month in civil, silent anger. I slept in the guest room for several nights until our daughter sobbed that she didn’t know who’s bed to crawl into at night when she woke up. I alerted my recovery tribe and fielded advice. The filter of anger would lift temporarily as I tried to find my part in all of this, and settle right back in. I didn’t deserve this.

During the course of his depression recovery, we lost the ability to communicate hard things. I sacrificed myself to make his life easier, and lost my husband. The little accountability I offered (go to meetings, reconnect with old sober friends) was not the accountability that he needed for his mental health recovery. I assumed agency of his disease, leaving my own agency of my happiness and sanity at the alter of his recovery. I mentally assigned meaning to his behavior instead of asking him. I resigned to a life of less-than-functional because I engaged in a delusion that I could restore functionality if I just did more.

I struggled with continuing the marriage. Could I accept that it may get worse but someday get better? Could I accept that my version of “better” would never come to fruition? Could I split the family apart and find someone new? Could I explain to my daughter that Daddy and I were divorcing without demonizing him and irrevocably damaging her perspective of love? I cried my prayers to God, sobbing that he show me what the fuck to do.

Contractors hired.

We picked the foundation repair company that provided the most work for the price. A home equity line of credit later, work was started on replacing our entire foundation.

We found a couples counselor in network with our insurance and with evening appointments. A copay later, we began to work our way back to where it all went wrong.

Replacing a foundation requires accepting that there may be more damage done during the process. One bathroom shower split so drastically that we needed to replace it (that’s a project still in process). More cracks popped into walls. Therapy yielded more hard truths. He shut down when he didn’t get his way. He was resentful at me. No. Fucking. Duh. I selfishly grieved the loss of shared recovery functions and my identify as an “recovery household.” I was lost and struggled with engaging in further resentments instead of trusting the process. I cried a lot in therapy.

Six months later, we are still rebuilding a foundation for our marriage. We’d been living separate lives with separate, selfish motivations for so long, it’s been hard to find sure footing. We never stopped having date nights, but now date nights have a deeper assignment: find new inside jokes, find out who each other is now. It’s hard. How do we do this? How did we lose the ability to connect and share real intimacy?

It starts with trying - doing and failing and learning, all the while being committed.

I imagine the weeks before a snake sheds his skin are the most uncomfortable weeks of his existence. The solution is simple: just start the process of removing dead skin. Change will happen. Our process is similar: remove the damaging coping skills that encapsulated us and find a new beginning. Slowly slough it off, embrace the uncomfortableness as a sign that change is coming.

My husband’s recovery can only be defined by him. I have to trust the relationship between him and his support team. The accountability I offer to my husband today is deeper and more in line with his values. No “go to a meeting” statements are uttered. His medication is having some shitty side affects like extreme apathy and lethargy. I ask him to address it, because this isn’t working. I need a partner to stay in this partnership. He’s gained about fifty pounds over the past year. Start packing lunches and eat out less, please. We can’t just raze our savings to cover high credit card bills - you need to address your spending, let’s build a budget together. I work to honor my frustrations more instead of being a robotic Stepford Wife. It’s awkward and I feel shitty doing it now, but I do it. I look for moments when I am being selfish and rigid in my perspectives. Our last couples counseling session was the first time I didn’t cry, so I’m taking that as a good sign we are on the right path.

The beautiful thing about foundations is that they can be repaired, even replaced. It may not be the “how” or “when” you want, but it can happen. I was insane to think that I married a static being, and even more insane to think I could mitigate his disease. Today, I accept that we are both incredibly imperfect, and we can redefine what our partnership is. Embrace each other’s capacity to change. Speak up, speak often, give each other the grace to fail and the support to rise.

Don’t ignore the cracks.