My Fridge Broke and I’ve Never Felt So Stigmatized

I never thought a broken fridge would bring me to my emotional knees and make me feel stigmatized.

My husband and I bought our first home together just over five years ago. New construction, we had to purchase a lot of the “basics” for it when we bought it — window coverings, washer/dryer, etc.

The kitchen came with a dishwasher, oven, and microwave, but I was surprised when we did our walk through a day or two before we closed on the house that we also needed to buy a refrigerator.

On the day we took possession of the keys to our new house, we went fridge shopping. My husband is one of those people who enjoys browsing hardware stores and checking things out online. He knew exactly what we were looking at, while I was trying to figure out which ones offered an ice dispenser in the door, had a drawer for the freezer, and was big enough.

I never thought a broken fridge would bring me to my emotional knees.

We found a fairly high-end refrigerator that also happened to be deeply discounted, as the store was selling the display model. It only had a couple of scratches on it, and they weren’t even noticeable.

Thrilled, we bought the fridge. Hubby bought the extended warranty since it was the display model.

For three-plus years, this fridge was a perfect fridge. It kept frozen stuff frozen, cold stuff cold, and otherwise operated as expected. While we had to be careful with closing the doors because they didn’t always close fully, overall it was great. You don’t think about your refrigerator; you expect it to work.

Then, one summer, we discovered some ice cream Drumsticks that looked like they may have melted and refrozen. Everything else seemed all right, and we were just extra diligent about making sure the freezer door closed all the way.

You don’t think about your refrigerator; you expect it to work.

We were fine until we found some chicken that was a little soft to the touch about a month later. We lectured our tween about closing the freezer all the way, tossed what we had in there, and moved along with our lives.

Then, about four weeks later, the fridge started humming. It was noticeable, but easy to ignore in a busy home. Then it got a bit louder. By the time the repair guy showed up at the front door, our refrigerator could be heard on the street; we had to raise our voices to talk to each other in the house.

He diagnosed the issue and ordered the necessary parts. I tossed everything out, and four weeks later, we had a working fridge again.

About a year after that, the fridge started getting noisy again, and some of the ice cream was a little soft. Hubby filed another claim on our extended warranty, and the same parts were ordered and replaced.

Also, the repair guy said that air must be getting into the freezer, throwing off the defroster and causing the system that regulates the temperature to ice over and freeze. I threw out everything we had in the fridge, and a week later we had a working fridge again.

I became paranoid about using the freezer.

This time, after replacing (again) the key components, the repair guy also applied some additional sealer to help the doors fully seal when closed.

Hubby said the failure was operator-error, and that our daughter and I needed to be more vigilant about closing the freezer door. I knew there was a service bulletin item (akin to a recall without actually being a recall) on our issue; to me, this was a manufacturer design issue.

For my part, I became paranoid about using the freezer. It took me about three months before I was comfortable using it again and fanatically double-checked that the freezer door was fully closed, several times a day.

The noise returned. My husband was incensed.

This time, Dan wanted to look at the machine instead of calling the repair guy back out. He did some research and determined we would have to shut down the refrigerator for at least 24 hours and let it thoroughly defrost. “If you guys would just close the refrigerator doors, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I know you have your special issues, Teresa, but you have to learn to compensate for them.”

This meant throwing away nearly $300 in fresh groceries, including frozen items that I stockpile for days when I’m depressed or too busy to cook. And not just any $300; this was the last money I had in the grocery budget for the final ten days of the month.

I was frustrated and started crying. “But it’s $300 worth of groceries that we have to throw out!” “Oh well, Teresa, it is what it is. Just deal with it.”

And then…

“I know you have your special issues, Teresa, but you have to learn to compensate for them.”

There it was. The broken refrigerator was my fault. Worse, its brokenness was caused by my failure to manage my bipolar disorder. For Dan, my blaming the design of the fridge was an excuse to avoid accepting responsibility. $300 lost in groceries was a consequence for my lack of effort, and well-earned. I went from being generally upset to feeling deeply stigmatized.

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

My husband is not a heartless man. Dan is kind, empathetic, and insanely generous with his family. He calls my symptoms “personality quirks,” and is quietly and helpfully supportive when I’m in a depression.

But on this day, with this issue, he couldn’t help himself. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

My husband and I fight clean, by unspoken agreement. We don’t call each other names, don’t hit below the belt, and keep arguments focused on the immediate issue. We don’t dig up ancient history or bring unrelated topics into our fights.

So for Dan to make that statement was unusual. Already upset, his comment struck at my most sensitive place.

Mental illnesses are stigmatizing, in general. From being “too sensitive,” “lazy,” “outrageous,” “dramatic,” or other harsh description, those of us with mental health challenges already struggle to overcome the labels we carry.

My diagnosis was a break in the marital contract.

When I first told Dan about my depression, he worried that it was our marriage that made me unhappy. I didn’t know it at the time, but he spent the first few months I was in therapy waiting for divorce papers.

As part of his work in highway transportation, he has exposure to the homeless of our area, most of whom live with mental illnesses. His work also provides training on how to interact with the mentally ill, complete with NAMI bringing in people to share their experiences. Their scary, startling, uncomfortable stories.

They made him fearful that the wife he’d known was about to change into someone more unstable, more dangerous, and ruin our marriage. To Dan’s credit, he decided to wait until he saw evidence of his fears manifesting.

For my part, I waited for the shoe to drop. My diagnosis was a break in the marital contract: Dan married me without this critical piece of information. Knowing some of his experiences with the mentally ill in his work, I held my breath waiting for him to lump me in with the others he’d known. Once that happened, I knew, we would never recover.

Now, we were dealing with more than a broken refrigerator. Now, we had a marital problem.

And here it was: My “special issues.” For a stigmatizing phrase, it’s pretty gentle, though that didn’t lessen my pain. I still felt stigmatized.

Now, we were dealing with more than a broken refrigerator. Now, we had a marital problem.

As I filled bag after bag with jars and boxes from the refrigerator and the freezer, I pushed back on him. I don’t remember everything I said, but I stood up for myself. He could be tired, frustrated, disappointed — all those things — but that didn’t mean that the busted fridge was my fault.

Somewhere between my tears and the fourth bag of food, I think it hit Dan that he hurt me. In any case, he pulled the refrigerator apart and realized that the issue was not as severe as he’d feared. He grabbed my hair dryer and defrosted the machine in about 30 minutes.

Words can’t be unspoken. Apologies can be extended and accepted, but that doesn’t always resolve the pain.

We salvaged most of the food I’d tossed, returning it to the now-fully-functioning machine, Dan working at my side to get it all back in the cool air as quickly as possible.

Words can’t be unspoken. Apologies can be extended and accepted, but that doesn’t always resolve the pain. It doesn’t erase that he stigmatized me.

I avoided the refrigerator for the next month. Just looking at it reminded me of my “special issues” and how Dan now saw me differently.

Not using the refrigerator took a lot of money out of my side of the budget. Eating out is not cheap.

I finally acknowledged to myself how the situation impacted me and sat down with Dan for a clearing-the-air conversation. For his part, he leaned into my emotions, validating them and explaining his perspective.

Looking at [the fridge] reminded me of my “special issues” and how Dan now saw me differently.

It was all I needed to repair the hurt in my heart. We use the refrigerator consistently again, and we are taking a look at what’s new on the market. We haven’t replaced it yet, but we know it’s only a matter of time now.

More importantly, we’ve worked our way through a challenging situation and our marriage is back on solid ground.

And I can hardly wait to evict this stupid refrigerator.

Have you had a similar experience? How did you work through it?