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 a.m., 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 a year ago, and since then it had been 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.

Lying 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 life. He had been called at work to get me from school, only to find my arms bloody and scarred. With every police call in the middle of the night, he rushed to be with me. He listened to my screaming as they held me down in the ambulance. After the doctor gave me medication to calm me down, he sat with me and watched as I fumbled over words and nodded off. The hospital was an hour from home, but he drove there every day, even if I only let him stay for ten minutes. There were days I refused to let him come. I know it killed him, but I did it anyway. How can he forgive such cruelty? He is the one who held my bruised and swollen hand after I punched a wall. He listened as I asked, “Aren’t the bruises beautiful?”

I turned my head to view his profile one last time before they took me to the ward. He looked back and gave me the best smile he could manage. Would I have the courage to face my daughter in this state?

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered.

“I love you,” he replied.