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He had found you, laying in your room, empty bottles of pills around you, vomit all over the carpet, vomit all over you, your desperate pleas while you tried to make yourself throw up. Your voice breaking when you tried to undo the damage.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
He sat by your bed that night. He couldn't sleep. Every-time he closed his eyes, all he could see was panic in your eyes. Self-hatred, it flowed through your veins like the blood that had dripped out of your wrists on all those nights full of hurt.
You hated yourself, absolutely hated yourself for attempting and failing. You hated that John had found her in the room. You hated that things would never be the same, you hated that you had just exposed your biggest secret, your depression. You hated it.
You know he is there, but you refused to acknowledge it. After all, it is easier to pretend to sleep. You couldn't hear John speak or breathe. He never blinked, never shifted his head. He just sat, still, holding his own self-hatred. He couldn't understand why you would hurt yourself, when he has been your sole supporter all these years.
Your self-hatred, it spread through him like the blood that had dripped over your wrists.
He hated you. He hated you for making him witness your fall, for making him see you in the room. He hated you for failing, and he hated that it was his fault.
You could sense it. The hate he had for you. The hate he had for himself. And it was your fault.
You hated yourself even more. Your thumb caressed the scars on your wrist and you finally opened your eyes. Your gaze meeting his, and you could see the hate in his eyes. You wanted to say something, but you couldn't. Your scars, they were the only thing he could look at. He didn't understand why you would do this to yourself, and he wouldn't forgive you.
The scars were his fault now, it was his fault for letting you fall. But he still loved you. And the tears in his eyes came to the surface. His heart broke in two. His anger was replaced by remorse. John couldn't speak either, he hated the love he had for you, hated the tears that would never go away. You started to shake your head. It wasn't his fault. It would never be his fault. It was yours. It would always be yours.
But it caused you to break down, hot, big tears rolling down your face. Your hand reached out to John, desperate for his touch.
He looked at your hand, the one that once caused him hatred. He reached out his hand to take yours.
John didn't want it to be your fault. It wasn't. If he could turn back time, he would have caught you before you fell. He hated it that he could not heal you, he hated that he could not fix you.
It wasn't your fault.
You deserve to be loved.
His touch felt like an anchor to the storm you were in. The whirlpool of emotions you couldn't keep in anymore.
"I can't, John." You sobbed. "I.. I.. I just can't stay alive. I don't want to."
You franticly wiped away the tears, trying to stay strong. "It hurts so much to be alive."
He pulled you into a close hug, trying to protect you from the storm. He wanted to say some words to convince you it wasn't true, but his throat felt tight. His words had no effect, no power to prevent you from feeling weak.
"Don't," he whispered, his voice heavy with tears. "It hurts me now to see you in pain."
"You're not a burden," he said. "Stay with me, please."
"But I can’t." You croaked. "Look what I am doing to you." Your tears fell on his shirt as you couldn't hold back your crying.
"I feel like a horrible person." You admitted. "I rot away in bed, while I pretend to function just fine. What is the point of living then?"
"If you left," John said, the tears in his eyes falling on your hair. "What do you think would happen to me?"
"Your depression isn't your fault. You are not a horrible person." John said forcefully. "You deserve to be happy, do you understand me? You deserve to be happy." John felt his heart break even more, hearing you speak that way about yourself. His own self-hatred was becoming unbearable.
"You'll live without me." You answered. "You'll be able to move on." You heard his words, but it felt like he was speaking a foreign language. It didn't feel like he was speaking to you, if those words would be for you.
"No, I won't." John said firmly, holding your arms tightly in his grasp so you would look up to him. "I won't be able to move on, you know why? Because I love you."
“I can move the sun and the moon for you, just give me time. I'll make you happy, I promise. Just don't give up on me."
"It’s no use." You murmured. "I would have to make myself happy too, John. I can't rely forever on you."
"I just don’t know how to be happy. I don't feel the sun on my skin whenever I'm outside. I don't enjoy my favourite meals anymore. I can't be bothered to shower." You admit shamefully, which type of adult struggles with these type of problems? You had a house to live in, a loving partner, nothing to complain about, and yet life felt so, so, so incredibly empty.
"Maybe you need to start small," John suggested. "Eat a candy bar, and you'll feel the sugar in your veins. Have a long hot shower, and feel yourself being at peace."
"If you don't feel anything, then we'll try something new. You're in my hands now, okay? You deserve to feel something in your life. You deserve to feel the sun on your skin, to enjoy life."
You wanted to protest. You were so tired after all, too tired to live, too tired to function. Too tired to protest.
"But what if I can just sit in the shower and not wash myself?" You whisper. "What if I can just eat plain spaghetti instead of cooking a full meal? What if I never turn into a functioning adult again."
His words made sense. No matter how much your mind tried to fight it. It couldn't.
It did make sense. More than you knew.
"But what if I never get better?" You retort. "What if this is my life?" The thought alone send shivers down your spine, life like this wasn’t worth living, at least not to you.
"I understand," he said softly, pulling you closer to him, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "I won't lie to you, and I don't know if it'll get better, but I'll be here for you, and I'll fight with you."
"I won't give up on you, no matter how many years we'll spend fighting, even if we'll never get to the end of it. I love you too much to let you go." John added.
"We can make it happen. But you need to accept the help, you need to believe in a world where you can be happy, okay? No matter if it takes 1 year, 2 years or 10 years. We'll make it there." John said reassuringly.
"All you need to focus on is getting through today. I'll focus on the rest of your life."
“But it worries me, John.” You answer, and it is not like you really try to talk him out of it, your mind was just flooded with worry. "But I don't want to feel like last night ever again."
"I promise that you're not going to feel that way again," John assured you.
"We are going to make sure of it."
"It's okay to be scared, but I'll always be there next to you, okay? I promise that you're not going to fall Take my hand," he said, gently offering it. "Let's take that first small step forward."
"When we get through this, we'll make sure everyone understands your illness and how strong you are for fighting it. But you must promise me that if you ever feel weak again, you'll come to me." John said. "I promise I won't be mad, I'll just be glad that you trust me." He added
"Please, don't ever be afraid of asking me for help, never be afraid. You can always reach out to me. Now come here and hold me.” John muttered in your hair.
Life can be weird, you reckon, because nearly 8 years later you’re sitting in your garden, the sun on your skin, and you bask in the warmth, it feels good to feel the sun on your skin.
And it turned out that John was right. It was okay to just sit on the floor in the shower. It was fine to just eat plain spaghetti, everything turned out to be okay, even when you ran the dishwasher twice. Those silly rules of society don’t apply when you’re trying to survive.
Of course your survival didn’t come without a fight, but you didn’t have to fight alone.
You look up as a plate of dinner is put in front of you, a soft kiss on your lips before you can say anything.
“Do you feel the sun, love?” That familiar voice of John rasps.
“I’m still feeling it.”