“Leave her, leave her. Take the kids and leave”. That’s what I hear almost every day from the various members of my family or my inner circle of friends. “She’s not good for you. You’ll never change her”. I hear them and I understand where they are coming from but they don’t understand me. I can’t leave her. How could I when I love her? I love her more than anything else in the world. Sometimes I think I may love her more than my own children. Or at least that I couldn’t live without her. Losing them would be ok. It would be bearable as long as I still had her. But losing her? I can’t even imagine how hard that would be. She has always been there. She’s like a limb, a piece of my heart. If I lose her, I lose a part of myself. How can I go on living when a part of me is missing?
It wasn’t always like this you know. There was a time when we were happy, a normal family. I met her during the summer of my sophomore year in college. She was working in a restaurant on Santa Monica Pier. I was spending the summer there learning how to surf. I asked her out and we talked all night. We went out for five years before I finally asked her to marry me. I still remember the sight of her walking down that isle as clear as if it was still happening. I can remember the feeling of my racing heart as she came gliding towards me. And my heart never slowed down, not once during our 9 years of marriage. Every time I look at her, I feel like I am seeing her for the first time. No matter how many years have passed, I still can’t become accustomed to her beauty. It’s like a dart to the face every time, but in a good way. Emmet was conceived on the night of our first anniversary. We were convinced he would be a girl. I even wanted to paint the nursery pink but she thought it was better to wait. The image of her face as she cradled our new-born son in her arms for the first time is forever imprinted on my mind. Sweaty and red but still as beautiful as ever. Two years later we had our daughter Amelia. We were a perfect family, so content, so in love with each other.
But it’s not like that anymore. We are not content, in fact I can’t even remember the last time I was genuinely happy. The first time it happened I thought nothing of it. I didn’t worry about my wife’s future when she tried to kill herself. I thought I would take her to a doctor and he would help us, he would sort everything out. And for a while he did. She became happier again, more like herself. Until I came home from work one evening and my kids were left alone. I called the police, explaining that she was unstable. They eventually found her. She was on a bridge, about to jump. I tried to reason with her, thinking it was another bout of depression kicking in. But she wouldn’t listen to me, she couldn’t listen to me. She couldn’t comprehend what I was saying. As we sat in the back of the ambulance, I cradled her in my arms. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I tenderly kissed the top of her head. They sent her away for a few days and then released her. She was so full of drugs that I no longer recognised her. I had lost her. And I didn’t know how long for. A few weeks later she tried to drown our daughter in the bathtub. She begged me not to section her again but I had no choice. Once a few weeks had passed, I sat down and spoke to her psychiatrist. He looked me straight in the eye and told me that my wife would never get better. He said that she had some form of psychosis but that he was unable to pinpoint exactly what kind of disease or illness was making her behave this way. Weeks passed and then a month. We were still no closer to finding out what was wrong with her. And I was no closer to bringing her home.
One night I sat at home and I decided that I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t live without her anymore. So I broke in to the hospital and stole her back. I brought her home and laid her down on our bed. The next morning, the doctor and three police officers arrived at my door. They wanted to take her back but I wouldn’t let them. I couldn’t. I stood my ground and said that I would bring her back if she tried to hurt herself or anybody else again. They left with the promise of returning. But they never did. I guess we were just another case number to them.
It’s been three months since I took her from the hospital. She still lives with me. I look in her eyes every day, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman she once was. Sometimes she comes out, in something she says or does. But most of the time she’s gone. Our children don’t really understand what’s going on. They know Mommy’s sick but they seem to think it’s just a cold and that she’ll get better soon. That’s what I keep telling them too. I don’t want them to worry. Worrying is my job. And it’s a job I do very well.
