I was married to a guy who loved to tell me he wasn't responsible for my happiness. I'd seen that sentiment in relationship articles all my life, so i made it my little mantra and beat myself up when it was hard to live by.

After we were separated a while, I realized "not responsible for your happiness" shouldn't mean "not responsible for how my choices impact you." He absolved himself of some serious fuckery under this guise, and managed to make me feel my reactions were more egregious than what he did. "Kellraiser, you're depressed because you're letting yourself be. My repeated affairs aren't the problem. I'm not responsible for making you happy."

I spent half a decade maxed out on effexor and still crying in the shower daily. I was beyond tipsy before falling into bed every night. I blamed my depression for keeping me from enjoying my "awesome life" (it looked pretty impressive from the outside - we had some money).

After the grad assistant that broke the camel's back, I was off all meds within a year. Everything felt so much easier, though I was now a broke single mom in grad school with two jobs. I had no idea his bullshit was the root of my problems, though that sounds insane; I swore I loved him, and I did. He was absolutely responsible for my misery, though.