You've Got Me.

After reading my last blog post, my boyfriend wrote me a letter. This is his side of my story; an important side that isn't often told...

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Dear Louise

Dearest Louise

Hey

Hello.

Sometimes I feel like I’m losing you. At least that’s how I feel when the little monsters take hold. I know that you’ve been scared of them, and I’m scared of them too.

I don’t know if it’s just me, or if it’s how other partners in my situation would feel too – but when things have gotten bad, when you’ve been feeling at your worst it’s almost like you aren’t there anymore. It’s those little monsters taking hold of the command centre of your brain. And it hurts. To see you like it, to hear you like it.

I know that when they take control the things that come out of your head aren’t you, but sometimes that doesn’t stop me from taking what you say to me to heart. What they say to me. What they scream from that little space the monsters have decided to claim as their home. It’s a temporary home, mind. Like a holiday let. But it’s still a home for them.

Sometimes I’m scared. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I just want to scream.

But I can’t be those things. I can’t do those things. I have to be better than doing that because it’s what you need me to be. And I’ve learnt that options 1, 2 and 3 just won’t help.


But you’ve been doing something recently. Something amazing. Something that I know seemed a long way off. A long, long, long way off. Maybe even like it would never happen. Like when you’re a kid and it’s January and you’re already wishing for next Christmas and you just want more presents.

You’re finding your presence.

That little trapped you is getting bigger and bigger every day, getting louder and louder. And I’m incredibly proud of you for that.

When you told me what happened, I was shocked, then sad. And then full of pride. Pride that you were able to fight the little monsters off. And I notice the difference daily. I know that you didn’t want to be on medication, but the meds aren’t what are filling those bin bags up. You’re the one gathering up the rubbish, pushing those monsters in there. The meds are just going to drive the bin lorry. Because, you know, you don’t have a driving licence.

When you’ve been experiencing the lowest points, I’ve been able to sense it. Almost like I can feel it coming. Your tone changes. Or suddenly out of nowhere you’ll say something like “they’re talking about me” or “they hate me” and I know you’re already there, and pulling you back from it is going to be almost impossible. Because once your mind has gone there it gets stuck. And I don’t see it that way. I can’t put myself in that space and understand you feeling like that sometimes because the notion that anyone could hate you for being you is completely alien and ridiculous to me. Because I know you’re brilliant and I’m an idiot, so if I’m smart enough to see how incredibly fucking great you are then everyone else is too. Then I’m desperately trying to convince you that you’re LOVED, and LIKED and RESPECTED but somehow what I’m saying makes it seem like the opposite because it ends up sounding as though I’m trying to dismiss the way you feel. And before I know it I’m repeating the same things over and over again like Radio One. The same things five times in the space of two hours and it’s all pointless, irritating shite. And each time you hear it you just want to throw the radio out of the window.

I’ve not always known what to do. And that’s something I hate. Because all that I want to do is know the answer and make it better. It’s like I’m playing Trivial Pursuit and I can’t remember what the capital of the Central African Republic is. Except now it’s not just Trivial Pursuit. It’s University Challenge and Paxman is giving me that withering stare that he usually reserves for students wearing shit jumpers with names like Tarquin Hudson-Smythe-Billington-Bumbleton. The answer’s there, lurking somewhere in the background and I’m reaching for it, trying to give you what you need and then I fall short and the game’s over and I look a fool. A fool that couldn’t give the all-important winning answer. (The capital of the Central African Republic is Bangui (I think)).

I’m always going to be here though, dangling a rope to try and pull you out that hole. Because it’s not about answers, I know that now. It’s about love, and support, and me being in your corner. Sometimes that means just sitting and listening and letting you get it all out. Sometimes it’s me taking control and saying, “This is what we’ll do. This is how we’ll do it. And this is how long we’ll spend doing it.” Changing things up a bit to make sure you’re comfortable, that we’re in places/venues/groups etc that you’re comfortable being in. Because at the end of the day, as long as you’re safe and happy and enjoying yourself, then so am I. I am always in your corner. You’re Muhammad Ali and I’m… errr… You’re Rocky and I’m Paulie. Now there’s a simile I can work with. I’m there with the towel and bucket and water. But we aren’t throwing that towel in. You won’t get rid of me. You’re making real progress already.

You’re not there yet, it’s not all gone. But even now, when it seems like something dark is trying to take hold you’re wrestling it off. Fighting it. Finding strength where perhaps before you couldn’t. I guess that’s when those little monsters manage to climb their way out of the binbags. And they need putting back in their bloody place. The little shits.

Like you said; “There is always hope.” I truly do believe that, and I hope you do too. And I hope you feel that, and that the feeling grows a little bit stronger every day. Like the love I feel for you. (I’m not going to start getting soppy here. What do you mean I already have?) Even when you are at the lowest ebb, there will always be people who love you, who want to do everything they can to support you. But also when you are at your lowest ebb, there is you. You will always be there. You can always find your way back to you. You can do this.

And if the rubbish starts to pile up, if the binbags start to split, you will be there to put the mess in to fresh ones. And then those little binmen will roll up with the lorry and start to pile them in the big compactor at the back.

So remember this, Louise. Remember that these little monsters will not get the better of you. You felt the bounce, you leapt back up and you hammered on that thick glass ceiling and you shouted yourself back from the brink. You did that. This incredibly strong, incredibly powerful, wonderful you. You are all those things. That is you. It’s who you always have been. Louise Emily Jones - fighter, contender. CHAMPION. You’re taking out the trash, one little monster at a time. And one day, they’ll all be gone. But until that day, you’ve got that little workforce helping you to keep the rubbish under control. And until that day, and for all the days beyond that day, you’ve got me.

All my love,

Ryan.

Winterton-on-Sea, August 2015