Diary Of A Depressed Virgin

Chapter 2 - So I Was Lost

It was late, and the house was quiet except for the soft hum of the baby monitor. I sat on the couch, staring at the blank screen of the television, my thoughts circling back to moments I had buried beneath the chaos of everyday life. Jess was upstairs, asleep—or so I hoped. These days, I couldn’t tell if she found rest or simply lay in bed, battling her thoughts in silence.

Why would she hurt herself? Why does she feel this way? The question haunted me, and the answers felt just out of reach. I leaned back, exhaling slowly, and let my memories take over.

I remembered the night at the bar, when Jess had stepped away with Patricia to get drinks. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, engrossed in Francis’s playful banter about our s*x lives. Joking about who lasts longer in bed. But later, Patricia nudged Jess and asked her, “So, can Dan really go a whole night?” I had caught the awkward laugh Jess gave across the room.

“It’s complicated,” Jess had said.

At the time, I had laughed it off when she relayed the conversation on our way home.

“Why do you even tell Patricia these things?” I’d teased.

She’d shrugged. “We’re grown women. It’s not a big deal.”

Well at the time, it was to me. I didn’t want my friends knowing it took 3 days before I and Jess could comfortably have s*x. She bled on the first day. Not the typical first time experience, but a tear. I thought we've moved past that. I thought we'd crossed that bridge.

But now, I couldn’t help but wonder if that conversation had been more than playful gossip. Those experiences could have been a major factor. Had it been Jess’s way of hinting at deeper frustrations? Our first few days of intimacy had been anything but smooth. There had been moments of confusion, even embarrassment, as we tried to navigate the new terrain of being a couple behind closed doors. We laughed through most of it, but maybe I had missed the signs that some of those moments stayed with her longer than they did with me.

Then there was the night her water broke. It had been chaotic and unplanned, much like everything else about parenthood. Jess’s groan of pain had jolted me awake, and before I could think, she was gripping my arm, her face contorted in agony.

“Dan,” she gasped, “I think it’s time.”

Panic and adrenaline took over as I called Francis to come pick us up. By the time he arrived, Jess’s groans had turned into screams, and I was fumbling to gather her hospital bag. The ride to the hospital was a blur of nervous breaths, Jess’s cries, and Francis’s poorly timed attempts at humor.

“Just breathe, Jess,” Francis had said, his voice high-pitched and frantic.

“Like... hoo-ha, hoo-ha, right?”

“Shut up!” Jess had snapped, her voice sharp with pain.

When we reached the hospital, my mother, Martha, was already there. She had arrived with her usual sense of calm, though her eyes betrayed her worry. Jane, Jess's sister, showed up shortly after, her demeanor markedly different. Where my mother hovered, offering prayers and comfort, Jane sat quietly in the corner, scrolling through her phone like she was waiting for a train rather than the birth of her niece.

“Where’s your mom?” I had asked Jane, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

She shrugged. “She’s busy. She’ll be here soon”

Busy. The word had stung, but I bit my tongue. This was Jess’s family, and whatever history they had, it wasn’t my place to judge. Still, as I watched Jess clutch my mother’s hand through another contraction, I couldn’t ignore the absence of her own mother—or the way Jess’s face fell when she realized she wouldn’t be coming.

The hours that followed were a haze of medical jargon, hurried footsteps, and muffled prayers. When the nurse finally placed our daughter in Jess’s arms, I thought I saw a flicker of joy in her eyes. But even then, it was fleeting, replaced too quickly by exhaustion and something deeper—something I couldn’t name.

Now, sitting in the stillness of our living room, I replayed those moments over and over. Had Jess felt abandoned by her family in those critical hours? Had the chaos of childbirth—the fear, the pain, the overwhelming reality of bringing a new life into the world—pushed her further into herself?

On the day of our baby's celebration. Everyone who cared enough about us was present. They were all happy, excited to be there, to celebrate our baby. But among all the smiles and cheers was the melancholic expression of Jess. No joy in her eyes, no light. Back then I thought she was just tired. I thought she just needed rest. But now, I keep thinking to myself, “Was she uncomfortable?” Did she not want to be there at all?”

But why? It’s our daughter’s day. We’re meant to be joyful.

And then there was my mother. My mother meant well, but her constant presence in our home after the baby’s birth might have added to Jess’s stress. Martha was old-fashioned, full of advice and unsolicited opinions.

“Jessica, you need to feed the baby more often,” she’d say. Or, “Jessica, make sure you’re eating enough to keep your milk flowing.” Her intentions were good, but I’d seen the tension in Jess’s shoulders whenever Martha was around.

I couldn’t ignore Jane’s role, either. Her indifference at the hospital, her half-hearted attempts to engage when she visited, Did Jess feel unsupported by the people she’d expected to lean on the most?

And then there was me. What had I missed? What had I failed to see in the moments that mattered most? Jess had always been strong, capable, the kind of person who could handle anything. But maybe I’d relied on that strength too much. Maybe I hadn’t given her the space to admit she was struggling.

The weight of it all pressed down on me, and for the first time, I felt the full extent of my helplessness. I couldn’t go back and change the past. I couldn’t undo the moments I’d overlooked or the words I’d left unsaid.

But maybe I could start now. Maybe I could listen more, ask more, be more. Because whatever Jess was feeling, whatever she was going through, I knew one thing for certain:

She wasn’t alone. And I would spend every moment I had left proving that to her.

A phone rings somewhere in the room. I recognize the tone. It’s Jess’s. I go over to pick it up. It’s a random number. Who could this be? I thought to myself. I pick up the phone. And a male voice responds.

“Hey Babe”