It was late, usually around three or four in the morning. At the time, I was used to it. It may have seemed like a one night thing, but it never was. It was an everyday thing. In fact, it became a routine. I would lay there in the silence of the night, my face stuffed in the floral covers of my pillow. The only thing that would ever fill my ears was the irregular, violent thump of my heartbeat.

    I would be exhausted, shaking from sleep deprivation, yet I stayed awake. My thoughts were uncontrollable during this time: constantly planning, listing out every worst-case scenario. My mind was a projector, my eyes a temporary switch. It would flicker on, replaying what seemed to be like a film. It would replay every occurance of emotional hardship, every time I just wanted to give up because of you.

     Images and memories flooded my mind of us on the phone. You would yell and scream, telling me that you were done, that you didn’t want to try anymore. Surprisingly to many, it wasn’t about our relationship, it was about your life. You would say you were tired, and I would too, yet both of us implying completely different things. Then, without warning, you would just, hang up.

     I was left there wondering, worrying if you were okay, if you were ever going to take action upon your desire to give up. I would wait for a long time, usually between 2-5 hours depending on the night. I waited for the faint vibration at my bedside, for, more specifically, a text saying something along the lines of  “I’m okay, thanks for everything you do for me.” or “Don’t forget, it’s never your fault.” Of course, that would never happen. I just wished it did. Instead, if you did ever respond, it was more, “You don’t understand what depression does to you. You don’t know the things I’ve been through, and you never will.” At the end of the day, those words were a constant reminder that I was unable to do anything, unable to help, but just wait.

     I remember always feeling drained, both physically and mentally. I always did a lot for you. I knew I tried harder than I thought was even possible, yet I kept asking myself why. Why has nothing changed? Why is that I’m the one who’s getting worse? Why am I letting this happen?

     Despite the chances I gave myself to really think and actually ask myself with reason, I simply -- just -- ignored it. Every time you threatened to leave, every time you told me I wasn’t enough, every time you screamed through the phone, “You’re the reason I’m like this,” I blamed myself and eventually found myself asking if this was really, all my fault.

     Staying with you was like staying in a room full of carbon monoxide. The toxicity was there, yet colorless, odorless, tasteless. I would stand there, unintentionally allowing poison to enter my being, poison that would eventually absorb every bit of oxygen I needed for my own survival. I would look to my right and see a door. It was right there, within arms reach, yet I did nothing. I was one twist away from freedom, one movement away from safety, but I stood there, oblivious and persisting.

     In reality, I had to leave, and I knew that. My friends knew that, my parents knew that. In truth, everyone knew that except that one clueless, single-minded part of me. After a while, I gave myself an ultimatum: me or you. It was like choosing between life or death, and yet I just couldn’t. I spent months trying to turn myself into the person you needed me to be, months trying to “fix” myself in order to give you satisfaction, to please you. I began to hand-pick my flaws, constantly beating myself mentally, telling myself I was never enough. I started to forget who “myself” even was, and believe me, when you begin to lose your sense of self, it feels as if nothing really matters anymore, that everything you believe in is artificial. You go down this dark, long path where your mind is in search for something. For me, at least, it was for something real.

     It took me over a year to finally leave, to convince myself that the relationship was, in fact, unhealthy. I waited, argument after argument, threat after threat, until one-last-night. People assumed it was one event, one thing that triggered the ending, but it wasn’t. It just was a constant cycle that I eventually got tired of.

     To my surprise, the “breaking up” portion was the easiest of my struggles. The unhealthy thoughts, the unhealthy coping methods I developed over those twelve long months didn’t just go away, and in full honesty, they still haven’t. Even now, eight months later, I still struggle with defining who I am. Everyday, I find myself asking where I lost my old self, and how I can get her back. Ironically, the one thing I did learn was that I can’t, the old me is gone. For several months following the breakup, I tried, to the best of my ability, to rewind, to forget what happened that year. Now that I see it, that wasn’t the most efficient approach.

     I didn’t think I would be able to do it, but well, somehow, I did. I learned, not only accept the experience, but to embrace it, find some good out of it. I felt like a child, first beginning to learn the most basic skills: crawling, walking, eventually speaking. I took baby steps, focusing on one thing at a time and after a while I regained, what I believe is the most important aspect of life: happiness. And that was only the start of my still present recovery.