I sit on the edge of my bed, in the psychiatric ward. My hand is lost inside my husband’s.
A psychiatrist asks questions with practiced kindness. I rattle off answers I know by heart. Sleep, appetite, mood, meds.
And then there’s a test. Part of admission. And I don’t know the answers. I can’t do the sums. Can’t draw the object. Can’t spell the word. My brain is mud.
My husband’s poker face slips. I can hear his concern in the silence. He squeezes my hand gently as I swat away tears. I’ve never felt more broken.
Or more loved.
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This article was previously published on The Good Men Project as part of their 100 Words on Love series
