Snapshot

Earlier tonight, John called his dad.

It was Father's Day, and he hadn't had a chance to call yet.

Because he had been busy all day.

Taking care of me. Taking care of Alex. The dogs. The cats.

He had mowed the yard, picked up after the dogs, and swept the sidewalk.

He had held me this morning as I cried in the shower and worked through my post-con emotional roller coaster. And insisted that I should just relax today and take care of myself.

He had drove clear to Canton and back to get us all dinner.

He stood in the hallway as he talked, letting his food get cold.

I heard his exasperated tone; saw him lean against the wall in exhaustion.

I heard his responses to heated questions.


When I looked out and saw him standing there, I snapped a quick photo.

Something about him standing there struck me.

I knew that when he was done with the phone call he'd be angry, upset, and hurt.

That he would be a little more broken than before.

Because he would have been told once again that one aspect about him made him into an uneducated and damned person.

That he would burn in hell for all eternity for daring to not blindly following his parents' lead.


His family doesn't see what I see.

The kind man. The thoughtful man. The selfless man.

Their son who does his best to help take care of his parents.

Who plays tech support to technology that belongs in a museum.

Who helps unload yet another piece of clutter or knickknackery in his work clothes because he hasn't even had a chance to make it home yet.

My husband who works full time to make sure that we are taken care of.

Who, after working that job, helps Alex with her homework every single night without a single complaint.

He patiently answers any questions she has about anything her brain can come up with.

He gives her his full attention every time she talks to him and strives to learn about what interests her. Just so he can have better discussions with her.

At her last teacher meeting, John sat beside me, listened to everything that her teachers said, and asked questions. He wanted to make sure that he was doing the best job possible tutoring her at home.


He takes care of me. And that is the biggest understatement that has ever been uttered.

He has stood by my side for nearly 10 and a half years as I've lived through and learned to deal with my mental illness.

He understands when I am out of spoons and need to step back inside myself for a while.

He doesn't complain when he has to pick up the slack in regards to housework because once again my depression has tackled me and left me in bed, barely able to function.

He deals with the panic attacks.

The outbursts of anger.

The good days and bad.


He is not perfect.

He does not claim to be.

In fact, he is often quite harsh on himself.

He has issues with self-worth.


I just wish I could make those thoughts go away.

I wish he could see what I see.

The strong, capable person.

Who overcame a background of hate and has since replaced it with a deep well of knowledge and compassion.

The man I have come to rely on and cherish.

Who has filled my life with laughter.

This beautiful person that I love.