writing

you are holding my old teddy, the small white one that would stay upright when i pushed it down the slide in our garden. he had one too, didn't he, a brown one? did it get lost in our old house, alongside all my good memories of you?

i want to tell you that when i was sixteen and told her i'd cut myself, i immediately regretted it. i remember the way she looked at me, a mixture of sadness, confusion and fear on her face, and how she repeated that she just didn't understand over and over again. i checked her browsing history a few days later and found no searches for phrases or questions linked to mental health or self-harm. i wondered how she could look me in the eyes and tell me she didn't understand my behaviour and, subsequently, not even try to learn more about it. when i spoke to her again, months later, and told her i thought i was suffering from depression, i was the one to insist i needed to see a therapist. when i mentioned that i felt i needed to go on antidepressants, she seemed surprised.

i want to tell you about the times i picked myself up from the bathroom floor, cleaned my cuts, put plasters on my hips and wrapped bandages around my left forearm while listening to her laughing in the kitchen. i was sixteen and a child, and, ten years later, i still haven't forgiven her for not being a parent.

and so you are left looking for pieces of yourself everywhere you go. you revisit old photo albums, constantly questioning the reality you found yourself in. you spend your days working on a puzzle half of the pieces of which are gone and thinking about how much easier it is to sing along to a song you've known since you were six than one you were forced to learn ten years later. you bite your tongue, wondering what you would have said back then. you accidentally scratch your hand and almost smile at the sensation. you see a message from a friend, the one that took god knows how many pills six years ago, and remember crying while on the phone to the hospital, a mixture of anger and despair clawing its way out of your throat, finally finding a way out: i will never do this to the people i love.

do you remember when we first met? we sat next to each other and i watched your eyes dart to the bandages wrapped around my left wrist and the scratches on my knees, my depression a heavy presence, visible in the dark circles under my eyes and the bruises on my arms.

do you ever wonder what my recovery would have looked like if we hadn't stumbled into that same restaurant a few years ago? would i still find breathing difficult, the weight of my experiences pressing down on my chest, my lungs seemingly unable to take in enough air? would waking up still be accompanied by this dreadful feeling linked to knowing that somehow, i have made it through the night?

in my other house, we spend hours talking about our wedding. we walk around holding hands, kiss at bus stops and sit on her parents' sofa with our legs intertwined. we seem unable to keep our hands off each other and our friends are constantly rolling their eyes at us. my godfather smiles when i show him my engagement ring and when her auntie calls, she tells her about me. my grandparents don't choose god over me.

yesterday, i came home from work to find my girlfriend lying on the sofa in our living room. i ran her a bath and made my way to the kitchen. i started making us dinner and she knocked on the wall between the bathroom and the kitchen three times. knock-knock-knock. short for i-love-you. i chopped the broccoli and cooked the pasta and i thought about where i was nine years ago. i thought about my birthday and the resignation, the anger, the hollowness. i remembered how much showers stung and what it was like to be covered in plasters and bandages. i remembered thinking my days would always be filled with tears, razors and this horrible, sinking feeling that came from not believing that life could be different, better.

it is 6:17am, when i wake up and she is still asleep, red marks on her cheeks, hands wrapped around her teddy, bare feet poking out from underneath her duvet. it is 7:30am, when i am having my breakfast and she comes into the living room, rubbing her eyes, smiling at me sleepily. it is 11:11am, when she texts me to tell me she loves me. it is 5:53pm, when i get home from work and she greets me at the door, kissing me on the lips and telling me she's missed me. it is 6:33pm, when we are curled up on the sofa, watching a show together and i keep talking and she keeps looking at me with mock-annoyance. it is 8:30pm, when i am about to shower and she sneaks into the bathroom before me with a big smile on her face, pleased with herself. it is 9:47pm, when we are in bed, lights off, and we struggle to keep our eyes open, staying awake so that we can continue talking.

love is a place.

it is our living room, our christmas tree in the corner, fairy lights strewn across our window sills and blankets folded neatly on the sofa because she needs things to be tidy and wants our tiny flat to feel like a home. it is the armchair in the corner, it is sitting there and reading a book and having her interrupt me every few minutes to tell me something, to ask a question, to remind me that she loves me. it is the table in the middle of the room, it is sitting around it and playing board games with our friends. it is our kitchen, it is coming home to the smell of a freshly cooked dinner, it is her coming out into the living room with a proud smile on her face ("i made you dinner!"). it is our bathroom, it is brushing my teeth while she is in the shower, telling me about her day. it is our bedroom, it is cuddling and talking and kissing in bed, it is falling asleep and waking up next to her. it is the park near our flat, it is our walks, our conversations and our fingers, intertwined.

love is a feeling.

it is the warmth that spreads through my body when she texts me, when she calls just to tell me she loves me, when she smiles, happy to see me. it is the joy i feel when i watch her act like a child, when she laughs while opening christmas presents, when she dances around our living room, when she surprises me with an unexpected kiss. it is the calmness that holding her hand brings, the slow smile that spreads across her face when i tell her a joke i have just come up with. it is the pride, it is seeing her achieve everything she has ever wanted, it is her cheering me on from her front row seat, giving me a standing ovation. it is the despair, the anger and the sadness and finding comfort in her arms and her words.

love is a person.

it is her eyes, shining with excitement, it is the wrinkles around her mouth when she smiles. it is the scars on her chin, the scars on her knee. it is the tattoos, on her wrist, her forearm, her neck. it is her patience and her openness. it is her picking up snails and moving them to the side while we walk, so that no one steps on them. it is her joking and laughing with her friends, it is her comforting them while they cry. it is her asking me to make her a cup of coffee in the morning. it is her looking at me with love and speaking to me with kindness when i am crying and barely holding it together. it is her asking me how my day was when i get home from work. it is her looking after me when i am unwell. it is her stroking my hair, holding my hand and kissing my neck.