I certainly am not perfect; in fact I rarely go out of my way to look for it, I am not sure it exists. I am far more attracted to the imperfections we have, dent, scrapes, scars and bumps we get along the way. How did you get here though you wished you were dead? Those are the things I want to hear. Often they do not even have to be said; the manner in which we deal with situations, other people and ourselves says far more about us are than we ever could. Making changes around another human is difficult. Our loving each other was never going to be perfect, neither of us had seen it before, around us were no prime examples of it but yet we kept trying. There was a stubborn resolve to loving him, everyone else gave up so quickly and left, I knew he expected, in fact planned, for me to do the same. It would take both our hands to count how many times it happened before. It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life – showing him I was different, not perfect, but not like them and not just saying it. I certainly came with my missing parts. Somehow, and I don’t think of it too often, we managed. He will sit looking out the window and whisper to himself out loud ‘I love my life’ and I remember there were times when he didn’t. I have moments where I have to say it so he knows it, but I remind him ‘I am proud of us’ and on this we are in perfect unison.