When I first met Carrie. First fell in love with her. I thought I could save her. By the end of the relationship, it was doubtful as to whether I could save myself.

I was Carrie’s first girlfriend; she was my first love. She was diagnosed with depression, I didn’t really known what that meant. I was a 22 year-old indie kid with dreams of being a poet or a singer or at least drinking neat whiskey with poets and singers. I can’t remember the first time I felt it, but I’m sure there must have been one time when I thought Oh Shit. This is worse than I thought.

Chemical imbalance she told me. Never be cured she told me. Did I love her enough she asked me? Of course I do how could you even ask. Carrie was on medication and I assumed this was a good thing. Drinking on anti- depressants I found, is not a thing to recommend. All the things that were wrong in Carrie’s head, well this was like feeding them chocolate.

She was ill though. Ill. And I would remind myself of this when I’d have to stick my fingers down her throat to bring back the toilet cleaner. Remind myself of this during my middle of the night rescue missions when I’d wake up realising she wasn’t there. Sometimes I’d find her, sometimes I wouldn’t. Sometimes I wasn’t sure which was worse.

There were things she would try and explain.

‘Sometimes I get this feeling, this overwhelming feeling and I just have to go outside and hope there’s a man around whom I can ask if he wants to fuck me. They usually do.’

Of course they fucking do. They’re men. And you’re beautiful.

Did I mention that she was beautiful?

Really fucking beautiful.

This is the girl who wouldn’t have oral sex because it felt too intimate. This is the girl who would get me to fuck her with an empty bottle of beer. Or a hairbrush handle. Or whatever was around at the time.

When she would whisper in my ear when we were making love ‘pretend you’re forcing me’ I just would without question.

Really fucking beautiful.

She would invite ex boyfriends who were still clearly in love with her out to meet me and sit smiling and giggling watching us both playing the game, playing each other, both of us trying to win her over, both of us knowing her well enough to know that neither of us ever could.

One time we were going to run away to Brighton, it seemed like a good idea at the time as we were staying with her mother and I had blue hair. Her mother found the tickets the day before we were due to leave. She threw me out telling me I was a waster (which was not entirely slanderous) and that Carrie would flourish without me. What I didn’t know at the time was that this would end up being true.

So we got a place together. I maxed out the credit card, died my hair back brown and got a job selling my soul to the devil. Though the company I worked for described it as a unique telephone sales opportunity. I scammed people out of money for a living. I still slept at night. If that makes me a bad person then that’s what I am. My colleagues really welcomed me into the fold; this was the first time in my life I realised that who you loved could make other people hate you.

We played our game of husband and wife. Living together, it went ok. Nothing really changed. I do remember one night, she lost it. She was mean when she lost it. Really fucking mean. I couldn’t react though could I, because she was ill. It’s not her fault is it. I remember taking the blunt knife, the kind you eat your dinner with, and carving away at my veins. Not sure what I wanted to happen not sure what I was doing AT ALL. Just knowing, even though I barely drew blood, that it felt good. That was the first time I can remember, realising that physical pain, it helps.

We used to go out into town at least once a week. Mainly at her insistence. She would wear really short skirts because, she said, she knew I liked them. Somehow I never felt that it was for me. Some guy assaulted her one night, grabbed her crotch after she’d told him she was gay. I jumped on his back hitting him with everything I had – he just laughed and threw me off. I could see the disappointment in her eyes when I picked myself up off the floor. I could feel the fissures forming in the air between us.

There were some good moments. There had to be. I’m not that pitiful. One birthday I remember her presenting me with this shitty looking notebook, I asked her what the hell it was and she gestured for me to open it with this excited proud look on her face. Every page in this notebook had been filled, photos of her as a kid; photos from when I first met her; little stories about us; things she loved about me; things she hoped for the future; pictures of us together right from the start; memories I didn’t think she had. I was the happiest I had ever been and even now when I look through that notebook, I can feel it. That one moment of absolute perfect happiness. That realisation that everything I go through, everything I put up with, it’s worth it. No matter what anyone thinks, I now know that it’s worth it. Two weeks later she fucked my best friend. I forgave her in time, the friend I mean, Carrie didn’t need forgiveness, she was ill remember.

She left me of course. After three and a half years. It seemed to be a very smooth and natural progression for her – we were out one night with a group of friends and she preferred one of them to me so went home with them instead. It wasn’t a smooth progression for me. It was every feeling, every bit of spirit, ripped and torn from me and spat out on the ground. It took me a year or so of heavy drinking and amphetamines to really move on, though I can still originate a lot of my fuck ups back to that time. So in the end no-one was saved and I learnt that it’s not our job to save each other. Sometimes I wish it was.

HV Whitehead is a bad sleeper and believes in fairies. She is from Manchester, England and now lives in Canadialand.