I had to let him go

I had to let him go. I'm not angry at him, I just couldn't stand by and watch him wallow in his illness. It's too painful. Obviously, it's more painful for him, but I have to worry about myself right now. My recovery is so fresh, so delicate, that I can't risk being pulled down into someone else's anguish just because I care for him. And I do. I care for him so much. More than I expected. More than either of us expected, I suppose. What was supposed to be a long-overdue hookup turned into feelings of...well...feelings. And, as I began to care more and more for him, I found myself increasingly concerned with the severity of his depression and anxiety.

It's difficult to watch someone you care about suffer without wanting to help. It's especially difficult when you've experienced these things yourself, and know first-hand just how devastating they are. It was only a matter of months since I'd felt myself trapped in that same fog, experiencing those same feelings of despair, frustration, and a general discontent with life itself. Of course I wanted to "save" him. How could I not? I knew it wasn't hopeless. I knew there were options that really work. If only I could make him see that. If only I could get him to go after it. If only I could help him feel as happy as I do, because he deserves it as much as I do. But the more I tried to help him, the more I could feel those old feelings stirring inside of me. It was as if helping him deal with his disorder brought mine bubbling up toward the surface. They say mood is infectious, and my fresh, young good mood was no match for his misery.

So I ended it. I know it was the best thing for me, but it will take time for my heart to catch up to that notion.