Put others first; that’s what they always told me. To do otherwise was to be selfish. They never taught me how or when to put myself first.

You’ve told me more than once that I deserve to love myself more than anyone you’ve ever met, and I just laugh every time, because you’re a hypocrite.

When the lights go out, the darkness is nearly suffocating and the blankets are nearly smothering and the music feels so, so loud in the silent room. We say “goodnight” and “wish you were here” and all the things that we think couples are supposed to say, and then I lay in bed staying up late and putting others first. I wonder if she ever got that grade she wanted, if he ever worked things out with his parents, if you’re happy.

When I worry, I mull words and phrases and scenarios over in my head; but when I worry about you, I think about that whole damned day.

That day in your hometown, when I came downstairs and ate a piece of cold, leftover pizza  for breakfast with the corners all turned up at irregular, jagged angles from when I had just stuffed the leftovers into a ziploc and threw them into the fridge after you left the night before. I was eating in my pajamas as you came in through the door, your big goofy smile not quite as big and as goofy as usual and your shoulders slumped and your hair a mess (as was usual). You said hello to me and then went to say hello to her downstairs while I ate, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sound of their laughter trickling down the old, creaky stairs. It took you about twenty minutes to say hello and only around three for me to finish eating, which gave me a terrible stomach ache (though I would never admit it; you were always telling me to take care of myself).

By the time you had gotten back, I had gotten dressed, though if you noticed you didn’t say anything. You looked tired, worried, pensive; so I made you eat something despite your protests, because food always made me feel better. After an hour, a movie, and plenty of banter, a hint of your goofy smile was tugging at your lips again and your eyes shone a bit brighter.

And then you looked at the time and it was gone.

You left with a soft goodbye, too shy or too ashamed to meet my eyes.

Nearly three hours later, I was playing with them when she got a call from you. She spoke in hushed, maternal tones, promising you that everything would be okay, even though she was curled up in her chair and hugging herself close as if she wasn’t so sure. The tension in the room was palpable, though he was just reading as though you weren’t in obvious distress. When you and she hung up, she took a minute to digest the conversation that you and her had just had before she began to relay what you had told her.

You had told me before that you used to hurt a lot. You hadn’t brought it up; you had just mentioned that you hurt when I mentioned how difficult things sometimes are for me. When I explained how difficult it is for me to smile some days, you had nodded emphatically and told me that you completely understood. But you also said that you were better now.

After a deep breath with worry etched onto her age features, she told me that a few years ago, you had tried to hang yourself with one of the ties that I had complimented only the week before. That you had come up with more elaborate schemes to end your life than I would care to hear. And that you were getting bad again.

My first reaction was a selfish one- I was hurt that I didn’t make you happy the way I thought I did. It only took about a half a second for that thought to disappear, as the overwhelming need to protect you from yourself took over, followed closely by the heart-wrenching panic that came with realizing that I couldn’t.

When you called me later that night to talk, I immediately made you promise (with some coaxing) that you would try to be good to yourself. While I lay in bed listening to the soft voice that I’d grown to love, playing with the cords of the bracelet that you had given me, it was quiet. No rustling of blankets, no noise from them, no whirring of the fan. The only sound for me in that moment was your whispers, your quiet chuckle when I said something stupid, your breathing. I felt like I didn’t need anything else so long as I had that.

“So you had a good day then, kitten?” you asked me, a smooth segway away from talking about yourself.
That was the day that I learned that they had told you to put others first, too.

I’ll stop worrying when you stop being such a hypocrite.