Chapter 37 Everything you do is fucking beautiful
Thirty-Seven. Everything you do is fucking beautiful
Tamara
When he told me about his depression and how it feels, nothing could have prepared me for what it was really like. It’s one thing for him to experience it in his head, but to someone on the outside, it’s far worse. Maybe that’s why he kept it from me for so long.
He shuts down, his body slumps a little and his eyes glaze over before falling closed.
He's not there, and yet he is; it's really unsettling. Laxmi noticed it before I did and told me to take my time. She gave me all the necessary paperwork and left us alone. I feel terrible that I didn’t realise what was happening until much later.
Until he opened his eyes and fixed them on me.
Through all my research, I learned pretty quickly that depression is different for everyone.
Some are unable to function, while others can power through days at a time.
Some have no control over it and others medicate heavily.
I don’t know where Patrick is on the spectrum and while he’s explained it as well as he can, there’s still so much I don’t understand.
To top it off, I’m unclear why he’s being secretive about it. Why doesn’t he want me to see or know?
The drive back home is silent and cautious, he sticks to the left side of the road and rides slowly.
We take our time setting our things on the tables by the door and before Patrick can go hide away, I grab his shirt.
He stops where he is and drops his head, chin pressing to his chest. He’s so tense, his body tightly wound and my heart hurts for him.
I slide my hand up and down his back, hoping it helps him relax.
It does, a little. He turns to me and I smile.
“You wanna know?”
Nodding, I close the gap between us, my hand still moving over his back. “I need to know, Trick. I could make this easy and say ‘when you’re ready’, but I don’t know if that’ll ever happen. Today was a little…”
“Scary,” he finishes for me and I sigh, kissing his bicep.
“Before this baby arrives, we have to be on the same page. I know there’s only so much I can do to help, but I want to do that at the very least.”
His jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth and I let his leather and cedar scent wrap around me.
His body relaxes further and I close my eyes.
Whatever is going on, whatever his demons are, they’re now ours.
We’re building a life together, a family.
I don’t want him to be alone in this. I know it’ll require tons of work with Dr. Sunita, but this is important.
The only way we can support each other is if I know what he needs, how to be there for him.
This is no longer about him, it’s about us.
And what the future looks like with his depression involved.
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Trick…”
He sighs and turns to face me. “I need to do something with my hands, Lo. Talking about this is…difficult.”
There’s a forcefulness to which he says the word, so I nod. “Idiyappam1?”
“Still craving sugar?”
I smile and he returns it. “I can make the thenga paal2 if you tell me how,” I offer.
Patrick cradles my face in his strong hands, thumbs brushing stray curls out of the way. His eyes are saying what his mouth is not and I hate this for him. I hate that his brain makes him go through this regularly and he has to live like this.
“I love you,” he says softly. “I never meant to keep this from you, but it’s a lot. And I don’t want you to be scared, okay? I’m broken and it’s okay.”
I grasp his wrists. “You’re not broken and I’m not looking to fix you. I want to be there for you. And in case you need a reminder, you are the love of my life.”
He smiles, a genuine one for the first time all day, and it knocks the breath out of me. Our lips meet for a brief kiss and then his mouth brushes over my forehead. We hold each other a little longer before he steps back.
“I’m gonna change, then we can cook.”
His walk is a little stilted, but I wait until he’s out of sight before exhaling loudly.
I grew up struggling with my anxiety and the way my brain convinced me I was fat and ugly.
I wonder if that’s what his depression feels like, if it’s telling him he’s all the things he’s not.
Making him feel less than. I untie my hair and shake out my curls, giving them a chance to breathe.
Then I gather it into a loose bun on top of my head.
I strip out of my jeans and feel the relief as I drape them over the back of a chair and wander around the kitchen in my large printed shirt.
By the time Patrick returns, I have all the ingredients and implements we need to make dinner.
As a kid, Velliamma often served idiyappam at breakfast. Made with rice flour and moulded into noodles, it’s steamed and eaten with a variety of things.
She’d sometimes make chicken or mutton stew.
Tessammai is the one who introduced me to coconut milk and spoonfuls of sugar.
It became my comfort food. When I was sad or happy, when I felt out of place and lost—idiyappam was what I wanted.
I never learned how to make it, but often found places that could.
Now with Patrick in my life, I know he’ll make it for me without complaint every time. Even if it might take us all evening.
“Since when do you have an idiyappam press?”
“Tessammai gave me one when she thought I might finally learn how to do it for myself.”
He shakes his head and checks the rest of the things I’ve laid out on the counter. “You ready to cook?”
I pretend to roll up my sleeves and he notices my pants are missing, but chooses not to say anything. I’m not doing it as a distraction method, just needed to give my tummy a little relief. And I’m wearing my not-so-sexy pair of underwear anyway.
“Mariammachechi gave me some grated coconut, which might be easier than trying to do it yourself. It’s in the blue tub in the freezer. Put the whole thing into the blender and run it until you see some liquid. Strain the coconut and run it again.”
Nodding, I follow his instructions and get to work. I try to keep an eye on what he’s doing, but it’s impossible with the responsibility on my shoulders. Especially if I want thenga paal with my idiyappam. It takes a while, but once I’m done with the blender, Patrick starts to speak.
“The biggest sign of an impending crash is when all my senses stop working. Sounds go first, it’s muffled and unclear, sometimes it like static.
Then my breathing ceases and I struggle to get any air.
I start to breathe through my mouth. Then my vision goes blurry.
I…I uh usually need to strip out of my clothes and curl up in a dark space until it passes.
Sometimes I fall asleep, only to wake up hours later and be totally exhausted.
Other times it’s a few minutes before I can think clearly again. ”
He pauses to give me more instructions and I focus on my hands, so he doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes. I glance over as he kneads the dough. Even with his words and the frustration in his voice, he handles the dough so gently.
“We talked about how hockey might be a trigger for me, right?” When I nod, he continues.
“Often it’s unrelated and comes without warning.
I can work through it, ignoring the tension in my head or the way my heart races.
I’ve played important matches through a spiral and got really good at pushing it away.
The more I push, the harder it fights back.
Obviously it’s different for everyone. Mine starts small and ends with a panic attack, but it feels so much more than that.
You know? The first time it happened, I felt like a failure.
There was a moment when I thought everything would be better if I could end it. ”
The dish in my hand clatters on the counter and he reaches for me. I blink away the tears and nod, not wanting to make eye contact. I don’t think I’d survive if I had to look at him right now.
“Tamara.”
“Please keep talking,” I say, hearing the shakiness in my voice. “Please, Patrick.”
He sighs and starts filling the press with dough.
“Dominic tells me I need to let go more often, I should let the depression envelop me and go through the motions. But that means putting everything else on hold and I can’t do it.
I…” he trails off and I finally look at him, his focus entirely on spinning the lever on the press.
The noodles come out perfectly into the idli holder.
“When I crash, it’s only for a few hours.
But if I don’t wait, it might take me days. And I don’t have the luxury.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a professional athlete. The schedule doesn’t work around my depression. I have you and our baby and my family and I’m responsible for so many things and I can’t quit it because I’m struggling.”
“Patrick.”
“Don’t,” he whispers and I stop what I’m doing to wrap my arms around him. He continues to spin the lever, filling each idli holder with a perfect layer of noodles.
“Trick,” I say softly and he shudders. “I love how much you care about everyone else. We’re so lucky to have you love us and put us first. But honey, you have to put you first too.”
“I can’t, Lo. I…what if something happens to you?”
“I’ll call for help. We’ve got our friends and family here; they’ll be at our door in seconds. But if you don’t look after yourself, what if…” my voice breaks. “What if I don’t have you any more?”
He sets everything to the side and turns to gather me into his arms. His lips brush over my forehead and down to my cheek.
I hold him tight, my fingers curling into the material of his T-shirt.
There are no more words I can say to make him understand how much I need him, but I know he understands by how he clings to me.
“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“I know. I know,” I whisper and we stand there a long time, hands wandering over each other to make sure this is real. That we’re real and when he finally releases me, it’s to stare into my eyes.
“I won’t leave, okay? Back then, I didn’t think I had anything to live for. I do now. I would never do that to you.”
“Promise me when things start to get really hard and dark, you come to me first.”
“Lotus.”
I grab his chin as he starts to shake his head. “Dominic too, but me first. I’ll make sure you’re safe and you’re okay. You want to look after me, but I want to look after you. We’re a team, right? So, we do this together.”
“It won’t be pretty.”
“Oh, Trick. Everything you do is fucking beautiful.” He snorts, but his eyes are still far away. “I don’t need pretty or easy or comfortable. I need you and if it means we’re going to have to fight about taking care of you, then we’ll fucking do it. Promise me.”
It takes him a few minutes to meet my gaze, but when he does, Patrick nods. It’s a firm promise and I wait for him to say the words. “You and me, Lotus. Together. I promise.”
“Don’t hide from me, okay? It is scary, for both of us, but it’s important we do this as a unit. You protect me, I protect you. Forever.”
His forehead knocks into mine gently. “I protect you, you protect me,” he echoes. “Forever.”
After a toe-curling kiss to seal our promise, we get back to making our dinner.
I finish the coconut milk and let it cool while Patrick loads up the pressure cooker with the idli thattu and steams the idiyappam.
I clean up the kitchen, wiping down counters and putting things away.
When everything is ready, he serves the perfectly cooked string hoppers onto plates and I drown mine in coconut milk before sprinkling sugar over it.
His serving is a little more respectable and it cracks me up with how careful he is with his intake of food.
We settle on the couch and with the television playing a random show from our ‘continue watching’ list, we eat our dinner.
When he laughs at jokes we’ve heard a million times, I know this is going to be one of the hardest things we do as a couple. But we’re doing it together.