I Didn’t Save Him; He Saved Himself

“You saved me, you know,” he told me, not looking over at me in the low light glow of the Christmas tree. We were standing shoulder to shoulder at the sink—I was rinsing dishes and he was loading the dishwasher—and he gently bumped my shoulder.

I looked up at him, his face half-bathed in soft golden light. “I love you,” he continued. “Thank you for being in my life.”

I wrapped my wet soapy hands around his waist and laid my head against his heart, hearing the steady thrum. He wrapped one arm around my waist and put the other hand on the back of my head, holding me into him. I love when he does that. It makes me feel so safe. We swayed to the jazzy Christmas music echoing out of the speakers and I cleared my throat.

“I am so grateful to have you in my life, Love. But I didn’t save you. I merely provided space for you to heal. You saved yourself.”

“You cannot heal in the same environment that made you sick.”

-Tyler Henry

He murmured an unintelligible noise in his throat and we continued swaying for a moment more before resuming our cleaning tasks. People would be arriving soon and we wanted the sink to be empty of dirty dishes from all the cooking and baking we’d done in preparation.

I think that’s an important point: Being able to save yourself. Being self-reliant enough that you know what you need to do, and having a partner who supports that and helps how they can. I am no damsel in distress; I want to know that I can slay my dragons mostly on my own, but I might need a pep talk when I start doubting my abilities. I want the same for my partner—for him to know that he, too, is capable of saving himself. And I’ll be standing by with an arsenal of pep talks and armor if he needs it.

My partner was in an abusive relationship for two decades before he got out of it and met me. And though we’ve been together for over a year, he still has moments of marveling at the anxious side effects he no longer experiences daily. His heart palpitations have calmed down, and he doesn’t pay constant attention to his pulse. He startles less easily with loud noises or coming around the corner and seeing someone unexpectedly standing there. He still apologizes profusely for things that he didn’t intentionally do—a trauma response that I happen to share—but he says he feels much calmer than ever before in his life.

I wish I could take credit for the changes, but I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I didn’t do anything other than love and accept him. And perhaps that’s what he’s referring to: he’s never before felt accepted for who he is. He loves to sing (and he sings on key too!) but his ex hated the country twang in his singing voice and always sang loudly offkey repetitive phrases over the top of his singing until he would close his mouth and withdraw. I love when he sings, though, because it means he’s feeling joyful. Joy is a fragile thing and must be nurtured, lest it withers. We should encourage joy in others where we find it.

This is such an easy thing to do. When you see someone’s eyes shining with happiness, when they seem at peace or effervescent, when they’re immersed in what they’re doing with their whole soul, it’s so easy to nourish that emotion. It’s also easy to squash it. There’s enough in the world to kill our joy, like how easy it is to smoosh a delicate crocus, poking up through a crack in the sidewalk. I’d rather move the crocus of his joy somewhere safe, tend to it, and watch it take root and grow.

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Previously Published on medium

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