It seems like society portrays honeymoons as the most blissful and wonderful vacation you will ever have the privilege to take in your whole entire life. You get to get away with the love of your life to some nice destination where you continue to fall even more in love. So, as a disclaimer to those who have yet to get married, proceed with caution. Your views and dreams of magical honeymoons may forever be tainted with the bitter taste of reality, or at least my reality. And as for you people that are already married, don't laugh too hard at me.
Jon and I had the great fortune of travelling to Ecuador for two months for our honeymoon. We spent time with his family living in various different areas of the country and had two weeks to ourselves on the Galapagos Islands. Doesn't that sound absolutely amazing? Feel free to be jealous.
Anyways, as I have blogged about in the past, I got depression while on my honeymoon. And this depression wasn't just the feelings of homesickness or adjusting to a new life as a married person, it was a full fledged major depressive episode that completely rocked both Jon's and my world. And our honeymoon, which consequently ended two weeks earlier than planned (changing your flights is EXPENSIVE!). And our fledgling little marriage. Fortunately, we can both now laugh about all of this.
So, as I was saying, I got really, really bad depression. I literally had every symptom you've ever heard of that relates to depression and even the ones that you've never heard of, such as....
Zoom in a little more....
Getting closer... almost there, zoom in once more.
Yup. That happened. On my honeymoon. And surprisingly enough, it was the very best thing that happened. But let me tell all the funny stuff before I get all candid.
To start off, it sucked. Really bad. For the first half of our honeymoon, me going to the bathroom was somewhat of a thing to be celebrated. But then the second half came along and my depression got exponentially worse. And so did, well, that little problem. It was actually quite debilitating. In fact, I was sure that I would die. It was death-stipation. Eventually I reached a point where, whether I liked it or not, I needed help. Which is where things get interesting.
It became clear that I desperately needed medicine, which meant that Jon had to ask someone in his family to give him a ride to a pharmacy. And being typical Latinos, they just had to know what was wrong. So my secret was out. Out in the open. WIDE OPEN. Bless their hearts, these people have no problem talking about that. Maybe it's just me, but isn't that a topic that should be reserved to muffled whispers?! In Ecuador it wasn't. In fact, rather than keeping it quiet, it became a topic of conversation, everyone had their own cures for this ailment and insisted that I drink this or eat that or do this. Fortunately, I was lying in my bed dying when this initial conversation took place.
When Jon eventually got back, I was brought to the kitchen to eat the prescribed papaya, take the prescribed pills, and do whatever else was prescribed by the experts. As I sat at the table innocently eating, a conversation swarmed over top of me. Jon's family were all talking about me. And they were all talking about how I was consti.... well yeah, that. No, I do not know the Spanish word for that, but when a bunch of Latino people are talking in a circle around you and pointing at you, it's not that hard to guess what the topic is. Had I not already been dying of something else, this very situation quite possibly may have killed me.
Now, how in high heavens could this be the very best thing that happened on our honeymoon? Well, as much as it sucked, it was a serious blessing for Jon and I. My depression had gotten to a point where I was completely unrealistic and crazy. I was flinging the D-word around and we hadn't even been married for more than two months. Although being sick like that didn't fix everything and we continued to struggle well after getting home, this little segment of my depression forced me to rely on Jon 110%. It forced me to accept his service and help, and it really opened my eyes in regards to how much Jon cared about me. After spending almost a month as a sick and depressed wife that was constantly pushing her husband away from her, being knocked down and forced to rely on my husband was the best thing that could have happened.
Today, Jon and I both laugh about this and even have our inside jokes (well mostly Jon, he teases me). Although we joke about it, deep down we both hold on to it as an important and almost spiritual experience that helped us survive our honeymoon. I never, ever thought I'd say this, but getting constipated was good for my marriage.
So there you have it. Single ladies, pack Metamucil for the honeymoon.
Jon and I had the great fortune of travelling to Ecuador for two months for our honeymoon. We spent time with his family living in various different areas of the country and had two weeks to ourselves on the Galapagos Islands. Doesn't that sound absolutely amazing? Feel free to be jealous.
Anyways, as I have blogged about in the past, I got depression while on my honeymoon. And this depression wasn't just the feelings of homesickness or adjusting to a new life as a married person, it was a full fledged major depressive episode that completely rocked both Jon's and my world. And our honeymoon, which consequently ended two weeks earlier than planned (changing your flights is EXPENSIVE!). And our fledgling little marriage. Fortunately, we can both now laugh about all of this.
So, as I was saying, I got really, really bad depression. I literally had every symptom you've ever heard of that relates to depression and even the ones that you've never heard of, such as....
Zoom in a little more....
Still can't pick it out... zoom in some more.
Getting closer... almost there, zoom in once more.
Yup. That happened. On my honeymoon. And surprisingly enough, it was the very best thing that happened. But let me tell all the funny stuff before I get all candid.
To start off, it sucked. Really bad. For the first half of our honeymoon, me going to the bathroom was somewhat of a thing to be celebrated. But then the second half came along and my depression got exponentially worse. And so did, well, that little problem. It was actually quite debilitating. In fact, I was sure that I would die. It was death-stipation. Eventually I reached a point where, whether I liked it or not, I needed help. Which is where things get interesting.
It became clear that I desperately needed medicine, which meant that Jon had to ask someone in his family to give him a ride to a pharmacy. And being typical Latinos, they just had to know what was wrong. So my secret was out. Out in the open. WIDE OPEN. Bless their hearts, these people have no problem talking about that. Maybe it's just me, but isn't that a topic that should be reserved to muffled whispers?! In Ecuador it wasn't. In fact, rather than keeping it quiet, it became a topic of conversation, everyone had their own cures for this ailment and insisted that I drink this or eat that or do this. Fortunately, I was lying in my bed dying when this initial conversation took place.
When Jon eventually got back, I was brought to the kitchen to eat the prescribed papaya, take the prescribed pills, and do whatever else was prescribed by the experts. As I sat at the table innocently eating, a conversation swarmed over top of me. Jon's family were all talking about me. And they were all talking about how I was consti.... well yeah, that. No, I do not know the Spanish word for that, but when a bunch of Latino people are talking in a circle around you and pointing at you, it's not that hard to guess what the topic is. Had I not already been dying of something else, this very situation quite possibly may have killed me.
Now, how in high heavens could this be the very best thing that happened on our honeymoon? Well, as much as it sucked, it was a serious blessing for Jon and I. My depression had gotten to a point where I was completely unrealistic and crazy. I was flinging the D-word around and we hadn't even been married for more than two months. Although being sick like that didn't fix everything and we continued to struggle well after getting home, this little segment of my depression forced me to rely on Jon 110%. It forced me to accept his service and help, and it really opened my eyes in regards to how much Jon cared about me. After spending almost a month as a sick and depressed wife that was constantly pushing her husband away from her, being knocked down and forced to rely on my husband was the best thing that could have happened.
Today, Jon and I both laugh about this and even have our inside jokes (well mostly Jon, he teases me). Although we joke about it, deep down we both hold on to it as an important and almost spiritual experience that helped us survive our honeymoon. I never, ever thought I'd say this, but getting constipated was good for my marriage.
So there you have it. Single ladies, pack Metamucil for the honeymoon.
I'd recommend Lax A Day. If you're like me and don't drink enough water.... well metamucil will have the opposite effect and cement you up quite good.... just a word of caution :)
ReplyDeleteBahahaha, thank you for that very pertinent advice. That would be awful to do the opposite then you intended!
DeleteLaughed so hard! Not that the public wants to know, but there might be a Wendorff(Gibbs included) link to the aforementioned problem and honeymoons. Mine wasn't that serious, but it lasted the entire time we were gone. Ha ha Beware all you unmarried Wendorff relations.
ReplyDeleteHahaha, it feels so good to know that I'm not alone!!
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