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Epilogue

Six months later...
February.

It may be bad, but I never feel sad at funerals. Just empty, really. Mostly because I've only ever been to the funerals of people I don't know and only went to because my parents knew them. Now, this time is different. I know this person, and for once, stood in the church wearing that one formal black suit that I had hanging at the back of my wardrobe waiting for an opportunity to be worn, I don't feel empty. I feel sad. More than that. Dolorous.

I am sad enough to cry because, as I watch the casket get carried down the aisle, I think about how the person who lay in there knew that this was going to happen. They did this to themselves. They are the reason they have passed on and that everyone in this room is stood, watching their lifeless body get carried down a synagogue aisle in a wooden box. They took their own life, they anticipated a funeral and a burial and hymns, and they did not want to be here on this Earth any longer.

They wanted this. They did this. And for that, it's sad enough to cry, because while they did this, they did not deserve it. It being the loneliness that they felt leading them to do this. The depression they felt that caused the loneliness. The bad things that happened in their life that cause the depression. The person who caused the bad things.

Alex can't keep his tears in as he and three other men carry his mother's casket on their shoulder.

When it's time, he stands at the front of the church, to the side of where his mother lay and reads out his speech that I silently watched him write a few days ago.

"On behalf of my family, I would like to start by thanking everyone that is here today and have sent their condolences. They have been of great comfort in this time and reminds us of the impact my mother had on so many people," He begins.

Alex's eyes catch mine. I nod. He sucks in a breath and continues.

"My name is Alexander, I am Victoria's son and only child. She never told many people about her life, that includes me, but I can tell you that she was born to Esther and Alexander Lewenburg on the twelfth of April, nineteen seventy-four in Plymouth, here in Massachusetts, and that's about it for what I know about her childhood. At the hands of my father, my mother and I did not have an easy life, and I'd always try to escape that and spend as much time away from my house as I could, so there were not many things that I actually noticed about my mother, meaning I am unable to stand here and tell you about all of her interests and hobbies, but I feel the need to read this speech as a way of apologising."

His eyes are on me again. He sucks in another breath. Continues.

"That's not to say that there is nothing that I can say about her. I know that she loved to dance. I'd walk in on her dancing to the music on the radio in the kitchen and she'd try to encourage me to dance too. Sometimes I did. Other times I was too stubborn. I groaned in embarrassment and I denied the offer. She would frown, in a way that you could see the sting of my words on her, but she carried on nonetheless, dancing away and laughing. Beautifully. I regret ever saying no, ever brushing her off, because I will never get to dance with her again, and I should have soaked the experience up as much as I could. Regardless of me denying, her positive energy was what I needed on a bad day. She also had a passion for singing, which is where I got it from. When I was a child, she always sang to me as I lay in bed. Her soft, beautiful voice always lulled me to sleep and I am so grateful that I have a recording of it. I still listen to it today as I fall sleep in the arms of my significant other because it makes me feel so safe and it reminds me of the good days where she would kiss my forehead and tell me that everything was alright. I was naïve enough to believe her because why wouldn't I? My mother never lies. I thought she was so kind. I say it like that because after I came out, everything changed. My dad got even worse, I got kicked out, and she got left on her own. She cut contact with me, and when I saw her after that, I told her that I did not think of her as my mother anymore and that I never wanted to see her again. And I never did. I blame myself. If I were to have told her, 'I don't appreciate how you handled this, but I still love you, of course I do,' then maybe things would have been different and we wouldn't all be here now staring ahead at her casket. Her last words to me were 'I love you, Alex' and I told her 'no, you don't' and left, never to hear her voice or see her face or watch her dance ever again. I wish I didn't. I wish I said 'I love you too'. I wish I was able to say goodbye. The last thing she heard from me was so negative, and the last thing I heard from her was so positive, something I am so grateful for being her last words to me, and I really think that shows who she was as a person. She did not handle things great, and she did cut ties with me first, she did not accept the fact that I have an attraction to men because she was so faithful to her God, but she still let me know that she loved me. She still loved me even though there are parts of me that she had no desire to learn how to love, and I can see the desperation of her wanting me to say it back now. And I know that it's too late now, but I love you, mom, and I'm sorry for not telling you that. I have only ever loved three people in my life. My mother has always been one of them."

I watch as he cries, his eyes, so lost, looking over at the casket. I can see the desperation so clearly.

The three people that he has only ever loved, in the order that I believe they come in, are Chloe, his mother, and then me. We are the only people he has ever felt love and empathy towards, and that's why we mean so much to him. He struggles to feel like that towards anyone else, and for so long, he had no idea why. He found his answer, when after months of seeing a psychiatrist, he was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.

I sat in the waiting room during that appointment. Once Alex came out of the room, with a facial expression that didn't help me to distinguish how he was feeling, the psychiatrist wanted me to go in so she could speak with me. 

I remember feeling frustrated over the fact that he didn't get diagnosed until very recently. I still feel some of that frustration today. His counsellor referred him to see a psychiatrist at the beginning of August. It's mid February now, and he's only just gotten diagnosed.

As I sit here at this funeral, my mind wonders back to certain things she said.

"For Alex, love and relationship are very black and white, causing them to be unstable, and intense. He is unable or unwilling to accept any sort of  grey area in his personal life and relationships," She had told me.

I remember coming to an understanding.

It's why he was so adamant that he hated his mother and why he came to that conclusion so quickly. Why he's so sure he dislikes people. And so many other things.

Loving someone is not easy, and because of that, Alex purposely prevented himself from feeling love towards anyone else. I'm not sure if it's like that for other people with the same disorder, but he did it as a way to cope with it. He shut people off and only let me in because he knew he couldn't deal with the instability of relationships, including platonic ones.

"Symptoms include rage and anger..."

I decided to tick off all the symptoms I've seen him exhibit as the psychiatrist listed them.

This would be a yes.

Alex got so angry so easily. He always feels like he has to break or punch in order to feel better. Everyday, he'd be angry or at least pissed off about something, but never about me. He's never physically hurt me. I can't say the same for the photo frame holding a picture of him as a child and his mother, or the wall next to the door of his bedroom, which has bruised his knuckles once or twice.

"...feelings of sorrow and the depression. Feeling lonely..."

Yes.

He cried so much. So much about loneliness. So much about me being the only one there. So much about how sad he was. About emptiness. About feeling a hole in his chest.

I remember him, in that hotel room in New York after he had given me a promise ring that's still placed on the ring finger of my right hand, telling me he tried to do something so terrible to himself. Something so permanent. I worry he'd want to try that again.

"...feeling ashamed of himself. Suddenly getting panicked..."

Yes.

So much shame. So much fear.

"...upsetting thoughts such as thinking that he is a terrible person..."

Yes.

I can't even count on both my hands how many times he's called himself a terrible person throughout this past year. I'd run out of fingers. He beats himself up too much about things. Blames himself for things that aren't his fault, or things that he cannot control.

"...Engagement reckless activity such drinking, drugs, and sleeping around, particularly with strangers and unprotected..."

Yes.

But as far as I'm concerned, he hasn't engaged in any drugs since a month after we started dating. I can't say the same for drinking. I don't have to worry about the sex with strangers. He used to do that. Of course, not anymore.

"....constantly texting certain people and clinging onto them..."

Yes.

He'd beg for me to not leave him even when everything was good. He'd physically hold onto me. That usually comes with panic. When I'm not with him, he texts me a lot then gets scared that he bothers me too much and that I'd leave him for someone more 'easy'. It has never once bothered me.

These are all signs that I was not able to see. I had no idea. I think it all progressed from the summer, after seeing his mum and dad, and then his mum dying. Around the time we went to New York. It wasn't always like this, at this level, I don't think. If it was, then it was never so visible.

I recall the psychiatrist saying something else.

"I'm still testing to see whether or not he's more of a discouraged, or quiet, borderline, meaning that he tries to direct things inwardly, rather than directing them toward others. Acting in rather than acting out. It's self-destructive," She told me.

I don't know what it's like to see someone with the disorder which is more than 'quiet' but the agony that I watch him go through everyday does not seem quiet. It all seems so painful.

"Do you understand why he would do this?" She went on to question.

"His dad?" I asked.

"Yes," She nodded. "He's terrified of becoming his dad."

"He's told me that before," I admitted. "Is—is this caused by what happened to him? He never tells me what is talked about here."

"Yes, it absolutely is. All of abuse, neglect, and long-term fear and distress he endured as a child. He's probably had this disorder for a few years now, it's just becoming more hard to manage as time goes on. However, we're usually not able to diagnose until the patient is eighteen. I hope you understand why diagnosing him took a while."

"God. I feel like such a bad boyfriend. I thought he had depression or something like that, I didn't know he—I just didn't know. I didn't even know BPD was a thing. If I did, then maybe I could've encouraged him to see someone sooner. I should've done that anyway. I did think that there was something wrong."

"It's better to not put any blame on yourself. It won't help. In order to be there for Alex, you must take care of yourself too. You are absolutely not a bad boyfriend. From what I have seen, you've been wonderful to him." She smiled at me. I smiled back, although a little unsurely. "I'd like to give you some questions for you to answer, if you don't mind."

I nodded, "Of course."

"Take your time with them. Feel free to explain as little or as much as you want, although a little clarification would be appreciated."

She then passed me a clipboard, a piece of paper with the questions on the held by the grip.

I answered the questions accordingly and honestly.

• (1) Do you feel like you have to tiptoe around your loved one, watching every little thing you say or do for fear of setting them off? (2) Do you often hide what you think or feel in order to avoid fights and hurt feelings?

(1) Occasionally — not every little thing. Specifics.
(2) Yes.

• (1) Does your loved one shift almost instantaneously between emotional extremes? For example, are they calm one moment, raging the next, then suddenly despondent? (2) Are these rapid mood swings unpredictable and seemingly irrational?

(1) Yes.
(2) Yes.

(1) Does your loved one tend to view you as all good or bad, with no middle ground? For example, either you're "perfect," and the only one they can count on, or you're "selfish" and "unfeeling" and never truly loved them.

(1) Yes.

(1) Do you feel like you can't win: that anything you say or do will be twisted and used against you? (2) Does it feel as if your loved one's expectations are constantly changing, so you're never sure how to keep the peace?

(1) Occasionally — only when he's angry.

(2) I'm not sure.

(1) Is everything always your fault? (2) Do you feel constantly criticized and blamed for things that don't even make sense? (3) Does the person accuse you of doing and saying things you never did? (4) Do you feel misunderstood whenever you try to explain or reassure your partner?

(1) No.
(2) Occasionally — Criticised, no. Blamed, yes, but not constantly.
(3) Occasionally.
(4) Yes — when I'm being accused.

(1) Do you feel manipulated by fear, guilt, or outrageous behavior? (2) Does your loved one make threats, fly into violent rages, make dramatic declarations, or do dangerous things when they think you're unhappy or may leave?

(1) No.
(2) Yes, only dramatic declarations. Not violent rages or dangerous things.

Once I had filled out the questions, I went back and explained myself further in the lines underneath each question. I found myself shocked at how many answers I had said 'yes' or 'occasionally' to, and I couldn't help the the feeling of guilt that had creeped up on me, as if I was talking bad about him behind his back. I don't want to paint him as a horrible person, because that's far from what he is. His mood swings and his temper and everything I said yes to, I completely understand that he can't help it.

I handed the paper back once I'm done.

"Right, thank you," She said as she took the paper from me.

She then looked down at it, and for a minute, she reads what I had written. It made me feel nervous.

After, she looked back up at me with that smile.

"Of course, Alex has already got the diagnosis. I only asked you to answer these questions to test your honesty, because that's very important when it comes to being there for him, and also if you recognise these things. Sometimes, when asked these questions, people will either say no because they don't want me to think their relationship is so bad or their partner is terrible towards them, or they simply don't realise that some situations they've been in are what is asked in the questions because they brush it off as something else or they're just oblivious to it and these questions help them to realise. Also, to be able to test whether or not his BPD is discouraged, I also wanted to see how he appears towards other people, too. I hope this makes sense."

"Yes, it does," I assured her. "Also, I did say yes to stuff about fights and accusing me and calling me things like selfish, but it's not all the time. I don't want it to come across like it's such a regular occurrence, like I'm being abused or something. It's only sometimes, and I always knew there was something wrong, so I had faith that this therapy would find the answer. I've never thought of him as a horrible person. I don't want to make him seem like that at all. It's all only sometimes. Usually, when he's angry, he'll cling onto me and want my comfort."

"You don't need to explain yourself, I understand..."

As I listen to Alex's speech, sat at the funeral, I feel anger towards his mother, which I know is horrible of me, especially as I am at her funeral, but I can't seem to help it.

He talks about her kindness, her love, her care, her passions, which was definitely all there, but where was she when he had to care for himself? It's not just her father that left him to his own devises, but her as well. He talked about how he had to do everything himself. Cook his own meals, buy his own clothing, find his own way to places, get his aunt to go to parent-teacher meetings, all from such a young age, an age where you need your parents, and age where you don't have much money for yourself at all. An age where you are completely dependant on your parents for good reason.

I understand that she went through the abuse too, but she was not there for her son, at all. It was a time for them to stick together and fight together, and she didn't do that. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but in a way she neglected him too. And now she's gone. She's taken the easy way out and Alex is left all on his own, fighting against his mind every day.

When Alex has finished, no one applauds, simply because you don't do that at a funeral, but I can hear the murmuring of people speaking, and as I look around, I see the look of pity on their faces as Alex walks back to his seat next to me. I know that Alex hates those looks, he hates pity in general, which is why he keeps his head down.

I take his hand in mine and kiss it.

"Well done," I say because I know how hard it was for him to do that. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you for being here," he whispers back. After almost a year of us dating, he still thanks me for being there for him, thanks me for not leaving, and I let him. I remind him that I'm not going anywhere. That I'm always here.

After the ceremony is the communal service where we all stand by Mrs Montgomery's graveside. When Alex signals that he's ready, his hand in mine, her casket is lowered into the ground. Alex's aunt then throws flowers into the grave.

At the wake, all Alex wants to do is sit a small table in the corner with me, his hand in mine. People attempt to talk to him, but he's blunt, disinterested. No one seems offended by it. They're understanding, if anything, and leave him alone. When I get up to go to the bathroom, he comes with me, even though he doesn't need to use the facilities, and when we get back to the table, he continues to sit in silence, his head on my shoulder.

The guests here are solely his family members. Alex didn't want any

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