(no subject)
I know what they're thinking when they stare at me. “What good have you done?” they wonder, sneering at my weakness, disgusted by my sickness. “What worth are you?”
'What worth am I?' I want to cry. 'What good have I done? I've stayed up nights with him while he wept. I've talked him back from the darkness, held him until the riptide of self-loathing ebbed, leaving him shaken and empty. I’ve remained at his side when he otherwise would have faced his demons alone. And I’ve battled those demons myself, just for him, always for him. Did you do that? Were you there when he touched his hand to his throat and said 'I'm afraid to be alone; I don’t know what I’ll do to myself'? No. No, you never saw how close he was, how easily he could fall over the edge. It was I who stood by him. It was I who protected him from himself. What worth am I? I’m worth every morning he reaches after the impossible night. I’m worth every next breath and heartbeat. I’m worth his life.”
They don't know these things, though, and I will never speak those words. It isn’t my place to reveal his secrets. If he wishes to bear his burdens in silence then I'll bear them with him. In the end it's his choice, for better or worse. No matter what happens, I'll be at his side. He has me if nothing else. Whatever good I can do is all for him, only for him, but they'll never understand that and I'll never be worth anything in their eyes.