We lie in bed, settle our legs, and yank the blankets back and forth between us.

We are making a perfect sarcophagus-like bed on which to lay our tired bodies.

We sigh and take deep breaths.

We release the day.

This is our time to cast out a line and wait.

And after a while, stray thoughts and worries bubble up to the surface, through the stillness.

At first, the thoughts are loose and willy-nilly.

Little niggling things, small grievances with a co-worker, updates on the kids. The cute thing our grandson did.

But eventually we sift down and go a little deeper.

A few months ago, with my depression, the focus became solely on that, night after night, and it got really tiresome.

I’m sure my husband was so frustrated, hearing my stuff, over and over.

I know I was.

But I was scared, and needed reassurance.

Because often I felt guilty that I wasn’t concerned enough with politics – Israel and Palestine, the election, and global warming.

Believe me, I care about these issues.

It’s just impossible to tackle the wider world when your personal perspective is like a pinhole in a sheet of paper.

And then there is the additional, built-in guilt of this condition that says: I’m letting people down, I’m not doing/being enough.

These thoughts were on a continuous scroll.

Poisonous.

But, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that guilt and shame can take me down faster than you can imagine.

And it never helps.

And now, looking back, I’m just grateful to have had a partner to bear witness on the other side of the bed.

I’m sure that many nights he just wanted to roll over and drift off.

But I’m grateful he was there to repeat the tedious words that are our litany:

It’s going to be okay.

You’re getting better.

We just have to be patient.

I knew these things, but I had to repeat them, to soothe my brain, like counting over old rosary beads.

That was my bedtime prayer – to simply come back to myself, to heal.

And every night when I turned out the light, I almost believed.