It cannot be easy to live with someone with mental illness. I realise that on all the mornings after.
The mornings after I cry inconsolably for no apparent reason. The mornings after I keep asking MB if he’d be alright if I died. The mornings after my tears wet his shirt, or the pillow on his lap. The mornings after he tells me irritably that perhaps I shouldn’t have married him if I had plans of killing myself anyway, and then, after I pull away and retreat to a corner, calls me back to him again and hugs my tears dry. The morning after I snap at him for no real fault of his own, for being himself and not someone in my head. The morning after his tired fingers massage my forehead ridden with migraine for the millionth time. The morning after he preaches some obscure philosophy without any real idea about what I needed, without actually helping. The morning after I think to myself whether he would one day tire himself out listening to me, holding me, preaching to me, over and over again.
His words make no sense to me, and do nothing to heal my soul. He doesn’t understand my struggle. His frustration seeps through from time to time, no matter how hard he tries.
But every morning after, I am thankful to have someone who chooses to stay, no matter how hard it is.