I looked over at him, his bloodshot eyes and somber expression sobering me. It wasn’t the first time I hurt him, and it wouldn’t be the last. He had work in the morning, and yet here he was, at 3 am, sitting next to my hospital bed. My arms and legs were tied down with leather straps, and he grimaced every time he looked at me. I wanted to hug him, to tell him I was sorry. This disease was ruining both our lives. I had been diagnosed as bipolar for a year now, and all it had been was day after day of stress and struggles. This was my tenth time in the hospital in the past year. Each time, he seemed to get more resigned to the fact that this was who I was now.

Laying in that bed, I started to think of everything he had gone through. How could he still love me after all I had done to hurt him? He was the one who had held me back as I was lunging for knives to try to end my own life. He had been called out of work to come get me from school only to find my arms bloody and scarred. Every police call in the middle of the night, he answered and rushed to be with me. He had to listen to my screaming as they held me down in the ambulances. After the hospital gave me heavy drugs to calm me down, he sat with me and watched as I fumbled over my words and nodded off to sleep every once in awhile. The hospital I stayed in was an hour away from our home. He drove that long way every day I was in there, even if I only let him stay ten minutes. It was worth it to him. There were days I refused to let him come, and I know it killed him. I did it anyways. How could he forgive such cruelty? He is the one who held my bruised and swollen hand after I had punched a wall. He listened as I asked “Aren’t the bruises beautiful?”

I turn my head to view his profile one last time before they take me to the ward. To my surprise, he looks back at me and gives me the best smile he can manage. Would I have had the courage to face my daughter in that state?

“I’m sorry, dad,” I whispered.

“I love you” he replied.