Trigger warning: Implied suicidal ideation

As I sat on the sidewalk waiting for my ride, I wished harder than I ever had for anything in my life that I could somehow teleport home, so I could be there right then, but I couldn’t. The reality was that it was still rush hour, and I was probably at least twenty minutes from home no matter which method of transportation I chose. By that point, I was so caught up in my own fears that I wasn’t even sure how I’d managed to coherently call for a car, but I had, and blessedly, it had arrived within five minutes.

I recognized the driver, as I’d ridden with him a handful of times -- enough that I didn’t have to give him any lessons on wheelchair-handling, thank god, because that was another thing I wasn’t sure I would have been able to coherently do, but not so many that he actually knew me or wanted to carry on a conversation with me. At the time, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, because the last thing I wanted to do in that moment was try to make small talk, but the lack of conversation also gave me a hell of a lot of time alone with my thoughts in the back seat of the car.

Why had I let myself miss all of the red flags? Why had I been so wrapped up in somehow making it all about me, that I allowed myself to misinterpret all of the signs that something was seriously wrong?

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at it, fighting the urge to try to call Justin again -- telling myself that maybe the reason it went straight to voicemail was because he was on the subway, on his way to the studio after all, and had hit a dead zone with no signal. But I knew full-well that the real reason I didn’t want to try to call him again was because if another call went straight to voicemail, that explanation would be a lot less likely.

Of course, I know now that was exactly how we’d gotten into the mess we were in, but at that point I’m not sure I was quite ready yet to completely face that truth, or to consider the active role I’d played in helping Justin pretend that everything was fine.

After what felt like an eternity, we pulled up in front of our apartment building, and I must have set a new record for putting my chair back together and transferring out of a car, because the only thing on my mind was getting upstairs and getting to Justin -- seeing him with my own two eyes and confirming that he was alright, or at the very least, seeing that he just wasn’t home, and knowing that he was probably at his studio and I’d be able to easily find him.

The elevator ride took for-fucking-ever, and I dropped my keys twice while I was trying to unlock the door, but I finally got the door open, and the first thing I saw was Justin’s messenger bag sitting in the chair that he liked to curl up in to read. The sight made my heart sink, because I knew right then that Justin wasn’t on the subway on his way to the studio, because he never left without his bag. His sketchbook was in there, and all of the little trinkets he’d always pick up because they inspired him and made him want to create. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, the bag lying there, abandoned, said a lot about how Justin felt about his art career in that moment.

With my own anxieties running higher than they had in a long, long time, I turned to go down the hallway toward our bedroom, hoping that Justin was still asleep, and perhaps he’d simply forgotten to plug his phone in and the battery had run out. Still making up goddamned excuses. But when I got to our bedroom door, the bed was empty, still unmade. I pushed into the bedroom and looked toward the bathroom door, expecting to see it closed because that was the last place Justin could possibly be in the apartment that I hadn’t already passed. But it was standing wide open, and the floor was littered with what looked like dozens of pills of varying colors and sizes, some of which I knew were his, and some of which were actually mine.

No sooner had I made that realization than I started hearing the sound of someone crying softly in the bathroom. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever I might find once I passed through that doorway, but at the same time knowing that in this case, crying was a good thing, because it meant that Justin was alive.

My eyes were focused on the floor as I went into the room, trying to take stock of just how many pills were on the floor and wondering why they were there and what the fuck had happened, before my gaze settled on Justin’s trembling form, curled up in the corner with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, as if he was holding on for dear life. Maybe he was.

Justin looked up at me, his beautiful blue eyes that had once been so bright and full of happiness and intensity and passion, now filled with despair and shame. I watched as another tear fell from the corner of his eye, unabated, as if he didn’t even realize it was happening. His phone sat alongside him, the display dark, and his whole body was quivering with some emotion I wasn’t sure of at the time. Was it fear? Or was it something else entirely?

My immediate impulse was to go to him -- to hold him, to feel him against me, to feel his breath and his heartbeat, to know that he was still here. To let him know that I was there, however he needed me to be. Before I could even think about it, I was out of my chair and sitting on the floor beside Justin, holding him as he cried, wondering what I’d just come in to, and at the same time being scared to death of the answer.

It took a few seconds for the gravity of the scene in front of me to truly sink in -- for my brain to run through the “oh shit” and the “what the fuck do I do” and figure out what I was really looking at. My husband, the man I loved more than life itself, crying alone in our bathroom, surrounded by pills. Pills that he very well might have taken. Pills that could easily kill him if taken in the right amounts and combinations.

And if he had taken them, I needed to know. I had to ask the question, even if I didn’t want to know the answer. Even if I didn’t want to entertain the thought that my worst fears might be correct.

Because not asking questions that I didn’t want to know the answers to was exactly what had brought us here.

This was not about me, or what I felt, or what I did or didn’t want to hear -- it was about Justin, and making sure Justin got the help he needed, whatever that might entail.

And as much as I wanted to break down and cry right along with him, I couldn't. Not yet. I had to keep my shit together, so I could be the person Justin needed in that moment. I'd been there before, once upon a time, in a parking garage outside his high school prom.

“Did you take anything?”

The first time it came out, my voice was little more than a whisper -- perhaps subconscious resistance toward asking the question at all, or hearing my worst fears confirmed. I didn’t want to think about Justin feeling desperate enough to want to end his life, despite how much clear evidence was right in front of me.

I felt the weight of Justin’s body against mine, leaning heavily on my chest, as he continued to shake with silent sobs, but there was no change, no movement, nothing that could be interpreted as any sort of answer to my question.

“Did you take anything?”

My voice was stronger this time, because I knew how much I needed the answer, even though I still desperately wanted to deny the possibility that the answer might be “yes.”

Justin shook his head, his face still buried in my shoulder, then mumbled a weak, “No.” He inhaled a shaky, shallow breath, then spoke again, his voice as unsteady as his breath. “I just wanted the pain to stop.”

I tightened my hold on Justin’s body, running my hand over his back, trying to comfort him as best I could, while at the same time trying to stop myself from falling apart, and finding that progressively more difficult as the harsh reality of what had just happened continued to sink in.

“What do you need?” I asked, my voice thick with the full range of emotions that I was trying desperately to hold back -- the overwhelming fear and sadness that I felt once I realized how much pain my husband had been in, and for how long. He’d been deteriorating right in front of me, but I’d refused to see it. I’d let him feel his way through the darkness alone, because I’d been too wrapped up in my own shit to acknowledge the truth.

It took Justin a few shuddering breaths to respond, and by then my shirt was damp with tears that I still wasn’t sure Justin realized were falling. When he did speak, it was a low whisper, barely audible even though his lips were inches from my ear.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. It’s okay,” I said softly, still rubbing my hand over his back, hoping it was bringing him some measure of comfort, but at the same time feeling like anything I could possibly do or say was like trying to patch up a severed artery with a bandaid. “We’ll figure it out together. I’m here now. I’ll always be here.”

He inhaled another trembling breath, and the exhalation was where the dam broke, and his silent sobs turned into loud ones that left him gasping for breath, on the verge of hyperventilating before he whispered the words that shattered my heart into a thousand pieces: “I’m sorry.”

It hurt to hear him say that -- to hear him apologize to me when he had nothing to apologize about. I was the one who needed to be apologizing, for turning a blind eye to the signs that had been in front of me for months, that were suddenly clear as day. But before I could tell him any of that, Justin spoke again.

“I’m scared.”

That was the moment where I lost the battle with my own emotions, and the tears that had been pricking at the corners of my eyes while I fought against the lump in my throat began to fall, sliding down my cheek and mingling with Justin’s as I cradled the back of his head, holding his cheek against mine while we cried together.

I wanted to tell him that I was scared too -- that I couldn’t imagine my life without him, that I didn’t want to, that he was my rock and he had been for a long time. But I couldn’t say any of those things. I couldn’t put that on him. Not in that moment.

So I said the only thing I could say: “I know.”

We spent a long time together on the bathroom floor, me holding Justin, thanking the god I didn’t believe in for answering my prayer as I let my own tears fall unheeded -- tears of sadness for what Justin had been feeling mixed with tears of frustration with myself for letting things get to that point, and tears of relief for getting there in time. He’d been so lost for such a long time, and I’d allowed myself to remain blind to it, at Justin’s expense.

As I continued to sit there, focusing on feeling the breath and the life flowing through my husband’s body, I realized that I didn’t know what would have happened had Justin not gone to that dinner alone. Had Rob not come in early just to talk to me. Had I continued to immerse myself in willful ignorance and denied what Rob was telling me. Was me breaking my foot tied into this too, somehow? Was this all one gigantic game of dominoes where all of the pieces had fallen exactly where they needed to in order to make me open my eyes and see what had been right in front of me all along?

I’d made a promise to Justin to help him, but the truth was that I had no idea how best to do that. Did he need to go to the hospital? Did I need to take him somewhere so he could check himself in and get the professional help that I knew he needed? Or did he just need an emergency appointment with his therapist, John? He hadn’t been to see John in a while, and I realized in that moment that I didn’t know when Justin had stopped mentioning his therapy appointments, so I really didn’t know how long it had been. But clearly there was a need now.

I spent the next several minutes trying to evaluate whether or not it seemed like the crisis had passed, looking for subtle hints and resisting the urge to ask Justin again what he needed. He’d already told me didn’t know, and I didn’t want him to feel pressured to have to come up with a solution to his own problem -- the one that I now realize I played an active role in exacerbating, by letting myself make it all about me. I’d enabled his downward spiral, simply by refusing to step in when things got uncomfortable for me.

Right then, though, I knew it was time for me to step up -- to push my own feelings aside and focus on Justin, so I could do what I’d promised. So I could help him get to the other side of this, as his partner. I also knew that meant I needed to be honest with myself, and with Justin -- no masks, no walls, and no pretenses. And maybe neither of us would know what we were doing, but, as I’d already promised him, I knew we’d figure it out. Together.

Once Justin’s breathing had slowed to a more normal pace and the tears had stopped, I released my hold on him just enough to be able to look into his eyes. The layers of what I saw there -- confusion and frustration combined with unimaginable pain -- made me uncomfortable, but that was one of those feelings I had to get past and not let push me away from taking action.

“I think we should call John,” I said, keeping my voice gentle yet assertive -- not wanting to take away Justin’s autonomy at all, but at the same time still not wanting to pressure him to have to come up with his own solution by framing it as a question instead of a statement. “Maybe we could get you an appointment this afternoon?”

Justin blinked a couple of times, his eyes still glistening with moisture, then closed his eyes and nodded.

I made the call, while Justin sat in front of me, continuing to blink back tears, his breathing a little less than steady, though nowhere near as ragged and uneven as it had been earlier. He still looked like he was holding himself together by a thread, and I was grateful that I was able to get him an appointment for right after lunch, because I knew Justin needed more support than I was qualified to give.

“He can see you at one,” I said, hoping that knowledge might help give Justin some relief -- knowing that help was coming. Not that one session was going to fix this -- not by a long shot -- but it would be a start.

“Okay,” Justin breathed. He looked down at the floor, and I could see his eyes surveying the scene, almost as if he wasn’t quite sure what had happened or how he had gotten to that point, before he looked back up at me, his eyes full of fear and uncertainty as he said, “I don’t want to go alone.”

“You don’t have to go alone,” I said, as I reached out and took both of Justin’s hands in mine. “I’m here with you. I always will be.”

I knew I’d already told him that, though not in the same words, but it still seemed like what he needed to hear. He needed to know I was there for him, in the way that I hadn’t been for the past couple of months. I’d let him go it alone because I hadn’t wanted to dig deeper, but I knew in that moment, as far as I was concerned, Justin would never have to go it alone again.

I’d be there -- even if it hurt, even if things were said that I didn’t want to hear, even if the situation raised feelings in myself that I didn’t like to feel -- because Justin deserved that. He deserved my full partnership, unencumbered by the demons of my past. I couldn’t promise I’d be perfect, but I would try.

And, at the end of the day, that was really all I could offer. All of me. Unconditionally.