She was smart, sarcastic, and as cynical as me. Stubborn as a mule; she knew what she wanted and she knew when she was right. But depression is a funny thing. It would hit her all at once, like a freight train; sudden and with extreme force. She would live with this sort of sadness like a devil on her back. It hung onto her with all of its strength. But every once and a while, she would wake up and find that the clouds had disappeared. There was a bounce in her step and she smiled as she drank her coffee in the morning.
Those were my favorite days. She would kiss me and her enthusiasm would seep out of her and warm me like the sun. See, life was never nice to me before her. I was born into a shit situation and it followed me around forever. I'm not a good person. I've done bad things. I've killed, robbed; done things that I don't like to think about anymore. I scare myself sometimes. But I never scared her.
Maybe it was because she felt like she had nothing to lose. She had no will to live. There is a stark contrast between living and surviving. She was simply surviving; just trying to get to the end of each day. Maybe part of her wished I would kill her someday. I couldn't hurt her. I saw myself in her. Not the crazy parts that made me hurt other people or act impulsively. No, I could see my own pain in her eyes. She had no family, no friends. She lived in solitude. Some days she liked it. Other days it weighed heavy on her heart.
Living in the city isn't the best for a person like her. It makes you feel more alone; small and insignificant. I guess I was insignificant too before I met her. I didn't realize what I needed until it was in front of me. I had never found someone who could so easily see through my flaws and recognize the real me. I don't think I even knew the real me. She helped me find that.
I hid my pain and my insecurities behind a rough exterior and an explosive temper. But her; she took a different approach. She hid herself away from everyone. She didn't like to bother people, so she would keep to herself. She let the pain consume her, and she lived with it like a roommate who leeched off of her and stole from her. She would live like this until one day, she would wake up and it would just spill out of her like a river.
She would have wasted away in her little apartment if she'd had her way. I didn't let it happen. I was enamored by her; I couldn't get enough. She pushed me away and I kept coming back like a stray dog. She understood me; I couldn't give that up. "I'm broken. Why do you stay?" She would ask me. "Because," I'd tell her, "Sometimes broken things need more love."
She woke up one morning and pushed me out of bed. She told me to leave; yelled at me to get out of her apartment. I was stronger than her. She couldn't force me out. She sat on the bathroom floor and sobbed and told me how much she hated me. I hated me too. But I couldn't give up on her. I slept on the couch for days, and she ignored my very existence. She barely left her bedroom. I would ask to sleep next to her every night. No funny business; I just wanted to be close to her. She would swear at me and push me out of the bedroom.
Until one night she didn't. She cried as I held her. Her pain had taken over, and she needed somebody; anybody. I wasn't special. I was available and she took the emotional support where she could get it. But somewhere along the way, she decided I was special. I still don't feel like I am, but the way she looks at me gives me hope that maybe someday, I might.