He's still stealing you away from me, though. Or at least that's how it feels. I don't know if he even cared if you managed to kill me. He stole the moment you and I would have had when you were rescued because I was hoping you'd kiss me and he took the moment when I was just lying in bed watching you sleep. I don't know how many other times he's taken away from you without me realizing it, when I was happy with you but you were struggling to remember who I really am.
Maybe it's not about me, directly, and I don't mean to make it about me. I don't. But it kills me when you're hurting, when you're not there. Sometimes I think it would be easier if you really just killed me, but then you'd wake up and I'd be dead and I don't want that for you, either.
I'll keep trying. It's easier now that I know it's still happening and it's not as much of a surprise. I want to be there for you. I want to make it easier, even if I can't fix it. I want to make you happy, not make you feel worse. There's nothing else I want more than that.