You can’t love someone until you learn to love yourself… Isn’t that what they say? I, for one, can’t agree. The basic premise of this saying states that a person shouldn’t enter a relationship until they’ve figured out how to care for themselves, which is partially true. However, I feel that it vilifies those who struggle with their mental health and presents them as unworthy of love. Yes, mental illness can interfere with a relationship, but it doesn’t rule out the possibility of a healthy and loving bond.
Take me, for example; growing up, I had my fair share of experiences with mental illness. Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt like there was something different about me—something foreign, a piece of myself that never quite fit. There was this feeling, this presence, that would nag at me like an itch, constantly out of reach. Some days it was barely a whisper, but the bad days were filled with perpetual noise, an ever-growing cacophony of insults and slights. Naturally, I cycled through a long list of therapists from ages 13 to 21. Some of them helped, for a while, but it never really stuck; the feeling would always come back. I felt like I’d spent my whole life running and running, but it somehow always managed to catch up.
I met my (now) girlfriend during one of these high-speed chases, around three years ago. The race had been on for some time by then, and I was barely in the lead. The feeling was right behind me, nipping at my heels, but, for a moment, I was stuck in time. I saw her, and in that moment I knew, I just knew it was her.
Retrieved from Pinterest.
I was suddenly a woman on a mission, and she was my objective. So, I threw myself into getting to know her—I was determined. Somewhere along the way, though, the feeling caught up with me; it always did. Six months in, I finally told her the whole story. She’d had hints and glimpses, but it wasn’t until that point that I truly let her in. I’d be lying if I said it was all smooth sailing from there; it really wasn’t. We had good moments, definitely, but my struggles were a constant thorn in our relationship’s side—always making everything much harder than it should have been. She was patient through all of it, though. Every day, she chose me again and again, despite how hard I made it for her sometimes. We were like a rubber band, we stretched and stretched apart, but we always snapped back; like tempered glass, splintering under pressure, but never fully breaking—we always found our way back to each other.
Even so, the race never stopped, the feeling kept catching up to me. Over time, I got better at allowing her in, at letting her help me, but it was so scary. There was so much on the line. Suddenly I wasn’t just responsible for myself and my feelings, but also hers—the feeling wasn’t just mine anymore, it involved her too. Something had to give, and I wasn’t going to let it be our relationship. Not this time, not again.
Retrieved from Pinterest.
So, stubborn as I am, I finally admitted to myself that I needed help, more help than I’d gotten until then. Therapy was no longer enough. And I was terrified! I was terrified, but I knew it had to happen. Hence, in October of 2024, I went to see a psychiatrist for the very first time. I left the appointment with a diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder—I wasn’t surprised.
Growing up as I did, you sort of start to become familiar with these labels. You turn to the internet, trying to figure out why everything feels so difficult. But assuming something’s wrong with you and having it confirmed by a doctor is very different. Sure, I’d been to therapy many times, but none of them ever told me what was wrong with me. It was a lot, but I felt a little hope. My doctor prescribed antidepressants and there was finally something tangible in the equation. It felt like I was doing something.
And it worked! Slowly but surely, I began to feel better. Daily tasks didn’t take as much effort. I could get out of bed and start my day without having to fight myself every step of the way—life became a (relatively) smooth ride instead of a bloody, never-ending battle. It was miraculous.
Until then, I’d convinced myself I’d have to deal with feeling that way for the rest of my life. However, soon after, I started looking at the future in a different light. It was no longer this heavy, dark landscape, but a clear (ish) road of opportunity.
Retrieved from Pinterest.
In the end, my girlfriend was the drop that made the cup run over. She was the last push I needed to get help, but that’s not what matters most. What does is that she never truly left me, even during the time we spent apart—when we stopped talking, when we spent months without seeing each other. She was always there; I could feel it.
What matters most is that she never gave up on me. She never lost hope. She sat right next to me in the dark, hand in hand, and she never let go. Letting her love me in that way was one of the biggest challenges I faced, but that’s what love is. It’s showing someone the worst parts of you, the darkest, scariest bits, and asking, “Do you love me, still?” and constantly having the answer be “Yes.”
So, dear reader, the moral of this story is that we don’t need to be all shiny and new to be deserving of love. We shouldn’t be denied all the tropes just because some things are harder for us than others. All we need is someone willing to walk with us through the dark, someone patient and caring and almost magical.
I’m not here to tell you what to do or what to think. My only advice for you is: if you ever find that person, never let them go. Because let me tell you, I know I would do it all a thousand times over if it meant I’d end up here, with her by my side—I regret none of it, only because of her, her, her. It was always going to be her.