You don’t know how it got this bad. Your trauma was catching up to you, nipping at your ankles like a pack of hyenas. It felt like you were drowning, all the damn time.

You would spend most of the day in your room, save for the times you would order take-out or go to the bathroom. Your husband, John, was always there for you. When you would go through your episodes, he would give you space and get you whatever you needed.

He was always there to catch you when you fell.

You sat in the corner of the dark room, knees hugged to your chest. You felt miserable, and close to just ending your pain. You heard a sharp knock at your door and a soft voice. “Darling, can I come in..?” John asked. You didn’t say anything, so he came in anyways. You didn’t notice he was there until you heard soft padding walking towards you and you felt a presence squatting down. John gently grabbed your arms, flipping them over to look at your bandaged wrists.

“Oh, love..” He mumbled, rubbing his hands up and down your wrists. He wanted to help. He did. He just didn’t know what to do, because you refused to open up with him.