What I Need

        "I think we need to talk.” Those words were deadly, certainly coming out of my mouth. She anxiously approached, pushing the door closed behind her. We had just finished exchanging banking information after I expressed my concern that I was not contributing enough to the relationship, financially speaking. She had taken it upon herself to take care of our joint finances, something she had much practice after her father had gotten ill. But I worried a great deal; she had to leave a country to escape the burdens her father’s illness had put on her, I did not want that same idea to cross her mind a second time.

“I think we need to talk about what if I were to get sick again.”

“Okay,” she nodded, contemplatively crossing her arms.

“I need to make sure that I make decisions now, while I can.” I think she understood the importance. Her father did not have the luxury and had to live with his consequences. It was something I read, a blog that convinced me that we needed a plan as to not be caught off guard. I was caught off guard more than once and I was not about to let it happen again; I was ready to make the leap into this uncomfortable conversation in the hopes we could come to an understanding.

“I don’t want to be in the hospital again. But I trust you to know when I might not be thinking straight… when it may be unsafe.” I didn’t want to say it. After all these years advocating against mandatory hospitalization I wanted to believe that I would be strong enough to stay true to my own beliefs. But I was scared, more than anything, I was scared of being a threat to myself and to my wife.

I went on, uninterrupted, explaining her in excruciating detail: where I wanted to go, who I wanted contacted and in what order, what I wanted done… She said nothing but took mental notes, her eyes fluttering intermittently, as though her brain was processing the information in parcels.

Did she take time to appreciate the effort I was taking, amongst the pauses I took? I knew this was as awkward for her as it was for me. She didn’t want to be here but knew she couldn’t be anywhere else. I knew we were making up for her lost chance and the effort we were both putting into this was healing for the both of us. She was able to see a side of mental illness she never got to see before. And debilitating wounds that had once left her answering the phone in a panic, unsure of who would be on the other side, slowly began to mend themselves. I felt proud to be that beacon in her shroud of subconscious terror. I felt proud and yet I felt liable; I did not want to be the one to disappoint and reopen old wounds.

“If that’s what you want,” she concluded our conversation, her hand already on the doorknob.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I want.”