I woke up at 1:45 a.m. again. I didn’t even try to go back to sleep. The second I opened my eyes, your face was there. Your pain. Your silence. The weight of it all.

Today, I have to fight for you — because there is no fight left in you. I cry as I type these words. I cry because I never imagined it would come to this. I cry because I know this isn’t really you. It’s the mental illness that has wrapped itself around you like a fog. But knowing that doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

Today, I have to make decisions that will likely haunt me, but they are made with love. I’m going to ask them to insert an IV. I’m going to ask them to place a feeding tube. They might have to restrain you. And just typing those words breaks something in me. The thought of your body tied down, your mind already suffering… it’s unbearable.

But what’s even more unbearable is losing you.

You want to die. I know that’s what the illness tells you. But I don’t want you to die. I want you to come back to me. I want you to know love still lives here. I want you to know I haven’t given up, even when you have.