Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 11 April 2003

What Does Not Kill Us, Makes Us Stronger

I wake to an empty bed, which surprises me. I'd have thought that after last night, Jim would need to be near me as badly as I need to be with him. But the bed is barren and when I reach over to touch his spot, there is no residual heat so I know he's been gone for a while.

I sigh.

He didn't sleep last night.

I roll over and work on my breathing for a minute -- Jim's bound to know I'm awake and any sign of agitation is likely to bring him racing up the stairs. He's come close several times these past few months, but he's always held it together for me. A few tears may slip past his stoic facade, his body may tremble and emotion may steal his voice, but he's been like the bedrock of my foundation, the anchor that keeps me safe in the storm.

I don't know how much longer he can do it.

Jim's whole makeup consists of a standard series of actions: assess the problem, form a plan of attack, resolve the situation and move on. That works really well for everything from fighting bad guys to deciding how to organize the kitchen cabinets.

Not so well when the problem is your live-in lover and a shitload full of decades-old baggage that he's suddenly decided to unpack.

Jim's got this territorial thing going, right up there with the whole protector of the tribe thing. It's all pretty much hard-wired in, part and parcel of the whole Sentinel gig. Enhanced senses, including sense of responsibility, sense of obligation, sense of honor. In this case, I'm the territory and the tribe pretty much begins and ends with me, and he's dealing with mucho conflicting emotions because there isn't anything he can do to fix what happened twenty years ago.

He tried that once, and I think the way it turned out scared even him. I know it terrified me. All I could see was him in prison, slowly going insane from the overload and me helpless to do anything about it. I think -- I hope -- it's clear that he's not going to do that again; as satisfying as it might be initially, the risks aren't worth the rewards.

So much for not getting agitated -- my heart must be going a mile a minute. I can hear him on the stairs and before I can roll over he's sitting on the bed, his hand stroking my back. "I'm okay, I'm okay," I mumble, yawning and sitting up. "Just thinking." I kiss his cheek -- morning breath is a little hard on Sentinel senses -- and lean into his warmth for a moment before I roll out of bed. "Shower, shave, teeth," I mutter, gathering clean clothes and heading for the bathroom. "You could make coffee," I add as I stumble down the stairs.

"Kitchen," he calls with a laugh, and I detour and fix a cup, taking it with me into the bathroom.

When I'm done, I emerge from the bathroom only to find that war on dirt has been declared. God forbid I might have planned to go back to bed, because the mattress has been stripped, the washer's already going. The dirty clothes are waiting for their turn. The coffee's been transferred to a carafe and there's a bagel waiting for me on the counter. I take both and decide to retire to the couch and stay out of the way for the duration. I snag my backpack and settle in -- I have two Anthro 101 classes this term, over 100 kids in each, and I haven't begun to grade the last essays I assigned. I've got days of work ahead of me.

Over the next few hours, a massive battle is waged. I stay in Switzerland, safe on the couch, and avoid anything that could possibly be construed as taking sides. Even when Jim ruthlessly tackles the office -- my former bedroom -- I keep my eyes on the papers I'm ostensibly grading and my mouth firmly closed. I don't know how much grading I'm actually doing; my attention wanders and I keep going back to the events of last night and then my mind flees, and I find myself tracking Jim's movements -- something safe in the midst of a huge emotional unsafeness. I know I need to, uh, deal with -- I will not say process -- last night, but I'm not ready. And I don't think Jim is either. This 'no dust bunny is safe, let not a speck of dirt survive' rampage he's on definitely indicates he's having trouble with something. I sigh and look at him again. He's still in the office. He knows not to throw any of my papers away, and if I have to search the shelves and drawers to find something after he's finished -- then so be it. He obviously needs to do this.

He takes close to an hour in the bathroom alone. When he's done, I'm quite sure we could eat off the floors and I'm willing to bet we have the cleanest toilet in the city. I'd put Jim up against any domestic hausfrau any time, and man, that is so sexist of me. Naomi would shit bricks.

My breath catches at the thought of my mother, and I look up briefly to see him staring at me. I force a smile, work a little harder and force myself to breathe without being told and then, work even harder to make that breathing calm me back down before I am yanked out of Switzerland and become the focus of his current frenzy. I don't think I could stand Sentinel intensity today -- I'm not ready yet -- not strong enough -- to dig into what happened last night.

But it's there, on the edges of my mind, and I can't avoid it.

It's late morning when he's done. The bed is made with fresh linens; the clean clothes have been put away. The bathroom sparkles and he's mopped the kitchen three times. I won't be able to find anything in the office for at least a week, but damn! There's not a speck of paper to be seen and neither a pen nor book would dare to move from its appointed place. The windows are completely smudge-free and even I can see for what seems like miles with total clarity through their crystal-like surface. The oven is spotless, the refrigerator has been cleaned, and even the pan under the refrigerator has been emptied, scrubbed, and replaced.

I can't imagine what he's going to attack next, but I'm praying to all the deities that it won't be the walls. I hate it when he decides to wash the walls. Until I moved in with Jim, I didn't even know people washed their walls. I'd either never been in one place long enough to actually need to wash the walls, or if someplace was really bad when Naomi and I moved in, we just painted. I wince as I think of my mother again -- I'm amazed at how often thoughts of her float through my mind. Is that because I really do think about her that much, or is she just more in my thoughts because of last night? My mind darts away again, avoiding, denying, and I keep my head down and try to concentrate on my work. Something's definitely going on with Jim, and I decide to focus on him. I'm just going to stay close and I'll either figure it out or he'll break down and tell me. Jim's worked really hard these past few months to be better at talking about things. He's still not comfortable with giving voice to his feelings, but he's tried so hard, because he knows it's so important to me. In return, when he gets like this, so knotted up with fear and anger that he doesn't know how to handle it, I try to be better about giving him some space, about not pushing until he's ready to deal with whatever is at the root of his behavior.

Today, I suspect I am the root. And the stem, and the leaves, and the whole fucking flower.

And I don't know what to do to make it better for him. Right now, I can't think about last night. My mind skitters away from the events of last night -- the words I spoke, the reaction of my mother. It's like a sore tooth; I can't stop poking it at, but the minute I touch it, the pain makes me pull back.

"Sandburg."

He growls at me and for a moment I wonder if I did something wrong. He sounds upset. I start frantically going through anything I could have done and realize that last night has thrown me into old patterns of behavior. I couldn't have done anything -- I haven't moved from the couch all morning. Still, old habits are hard to break. I keep my head down and wait.

"Chief?"

His voice is softer this time, not so rough with unnamed emotion. I lift a finger for him to wait while I breathe and work on staying calm. This is Jim, for God's sake. I'm not in trouble. I haven't done anything wrong.

"Blair ...."

His voice breaks and it rouses me immediately from my internal monologue. I look up to find him staring at me and ask, "Jim? You okay?"

His voice is rough again, but this time I know it's not something I did. "I need to get out of here," he says in that emotion-roughened voice. "Can we go over to the university -- maybe I can use the gym?"

He wants to use the university gym? He never goes there. I've listened to him rag about academics and their fitness center ever since we met, and now he wants to go work out in what he calls a fashion show for the young and wish-they-were-young. He always works out at Frankie's, a dark and smelly hole-in-the-wall place right up the road. Old equipment, older building, ancient owner. I think Frankie used to be a fighter. He still works with kids -- trains them in the manly art of boxing. Now, I'm all for getting kids off the street and sports are great for developing that competitive edge and team-building and all that stuff, to say nothing of the fact that when done right, sports can be fun. But boxing? Man, that is so not what we need to be teaching urban youth. But .... I force my mind back to the matter at hand. Jim. He's still watching me expectantly. Something's not right. "What's wrong with Frankie's?" I ask.

He looks a little lost as he shrugs and stammers, "I don't -- I can't ...."

But before I've totally taken in his reaction, I realize he said we. As in 'can we go to the gym?' I haven't figured out what's going on yet, but he knows I don't do the gym. Definitely not my thing. I may force the old bod to run a few miles here and there, but for the most part, all this emphasis on exercise for exercise's sake escapes me. Eat healthy, lead a moderately active life, and everything else falls into place. No need to bore myself to tears pushing heavy weights up and down over and over and over again. Though I have to admit, I do like the results of Jim's obsession with pushing heavy weights up and down over and over and over again. Still .... I'm off on a tangent again, so I refocus, asking, "And why do I have to come?"

He stares at me again, hunger in his eyes, but it's not the hunger of passion. This is the hunger of a starving man, a man who can't get enough of what's been put in front of him. He stares at me as if I am the most precious thing in his world -- the only thing in his world. But then, wordless frustration -- with me? with himself? -- flits across his face almost too fast for me to catch and identify and he shrugs. He scrubs at the already antiseptically clean counter and shakes his head as if language is beyond him.

What's going on here?

"Jim?" I call, waiting, but am met with silence.

I shift things around, restack my papers, rearrange my books and then rise and pad over in my sock feet to stand beside him. I touch him -- my hand resting in the hollow of his back as I begin to breathe. It's a trick I use; I don't think he even realizes I do it. When he gets tense like this, I focus on my breathing. When I touch him, I know he focuses on me. He catalogues everything about me -- how I look, how I smell, how I sound. That includes heart rate and respiration. He takes it all in, and then, without even realizing he's doing it, he begins to breathe with me. In seconds, some of the tension eases from his taut muscles.

He takes one more deep breath, then leans forward on the counter, not so much to get away from me or to rest, but to give him something to push against. The muscles in his forearms bunch and his shoulders ripple as he presses downward.

"Please, come with me," he almost whispers.

He sounds lost and a little afraid and I slide under his arm, between him and the counter, then rise up and wrap my arms around him. He freezes for just a moment, then drops his head, burying his face in my neck, and enfolds me in his arms. He's standing there, holding me, breathing my scent, breathing with me, until I ask, "What's going on, Jim?"

There's no response, and then he shrugs again, his face still planted firmly under my right ear. At length, he says, "I need to work out. I need to, and I don't want to go alone."

That was hard for him -- hard for him to admit. Of course, I know he doesn't really mean he doesn't want to go alone. I pat him on the back and say, "You mean you don't want me to be alone."

I get another shrug. It doesn't seem to matter to him how I interpret it, as long as I go with him.

My Jim -- so lost when it comes to this analyzing your motivation stuff. He really doesn't care why he's feeling so protective right now. Doesn't care why he wants to stay with me. Doesn't even want to consider that it might be because he needs me. All that matters to him is that I stay near and if that's all it takes to make things right with his world again, then hey, who am I to argue? There are a lot of times I wish things were that simple for me. I look up, brush my lips against his, a kiss of comfort and acceptance, and then I say, "I can work at the gym." He yanks me back against his chest, arms holding me close as he strokes my back and snuffles against my neck. I let him hold me until air starts to become an issue, then I say softly, "Easy, big guy, I'm gonna need to keep on breathing if we're going to the U."

He loosens his hold, but doesn't let me go and I keep stroking his back for a bit longer, then slip out of his grasp. "Let me get my stuff together," I say to him, as I grab up all the papers and load my pack. Without a word, he's up the stairs and by the time he's back with his gym bag, my pack is full, I've found my shoes, and I'm ready to follow wherever he leads. He grabs a couple of bottles of water out of the refrigerator, then tosses one in my direction as we head out the door.

I'm standing in the hallways, sipping my water, waiting for the elevator, and wondering what's going on in his head. I don't want to push, but I can't help asking, "So, Jim -- think you're going to be able to tell me what this is about?"

His face pales and he makes this choked sound, then drops his bag and begins to pace almost frantically. Down the hall to the stairs, back to the elevator, back to the stairs, back to the elevator. He makes the circuit a couple more times, his face going from chalk white to red, and I'm thinking that maybe I shouldn't have pushed after all. I have no idea what's going on in his head, what he's thinking. I mean, I know it's about me -- I know he's not upset with me, but rather by the circumstances that surround me. But what is it that's set him off like this? Was it what happened? Who did it? How it occurred? I don't know what to do -- I can't change it. I can't make this hurt less for him.

The synchronized breathing I had him doing is gone and as I watch, he roars -- actually roars! -- and plows his hand through the wall. I'm thinking -- this guy is so lucky. This is number 18, and he hasn't hit a stud yet. Sentinel senses? Who knows? All I know right now is I see another afternoon of drywall in my future.

"Jim, Jim, Jim," I tsk at him, "we just got the last holes fixed."

He winces as he pulls his hand out slowly, looking a little sheepish, then laughs.

I smile at him. He needs to seriously decompress, and a little laughter will have to last until we can get to the gym. I am so not going to replace the whole damned hall again.

"Yeah, well," he says, still chuckling, "at least I know how to do it now."

I study him a moment, then confirm, "Just one?"

"I'm done," he says, rolling his eyes at me.

"You'll live." I take his hand and gently kiss the scraped knuckles. The elevator dings and I tell him, "You've really got to find another way to channel your aggression," as we hop in and ride down.

But he just makes this noise, low in his throat, then leans over and kisses me.

"I told you I needed to go work out," he says, as if that makes the new hole in the wall a perfectly understandable thing.

I shake my head. I love him, but he completely baffles me at times.

We get to the fitness center and I'm reminded again of why Jim really doesn't like this place and doesn't really fit in. He steers me into the lounge that's right next to this huge viewing window. There are little tables and chairs all along the window, more tables along the side walls, sofa groupings in the center of the room and along the far wall, a coffee bar. Can you say 'yuppie?' Not Jim's cuppa.

I glance through the window, see a few kids I recognize, and realize that Jim is going to fit in here like a shark in a tank of tropical fish. The fish look pretty, with their slim lines and bright colors, and they move around in fascinating patterns, but they don't know the first thing about swimming, not like the shark does. I smile -- these guys aren't going to be able to take their eyes off Jim.

He frowns when he realizes there aren't any tables by the window, and scans the room quickly. I'm about to go stake my claim on a sofa when a couple of girls get up and Jim grabs the table. He fusses about me for a minute, holding my pack while I pull papers out, shifting the second chair so I can use it to stack things on, even fiddling self-consciously with my hair for a moment. He glances at the bar, pats my shoulder and stalks away -- a man on a mission. I watch with a slight smile on my face that turns into a grin when he returns with a cup of coffee and a sandwich for me. He is always trying to feed me. He smiles back, almost sheepishly, and shrugs.

"You set, Chief?" he asks at last and I nod.

"Go," I say with a small laugh. "Sweat and grunt and hit things."

He snorts but touches my head for a second before turning to go.

"Just leave the walls alone!" I call after him, getting a distracted wave in return. He's really tense. He needs this.

It seems like he's hardly out of my sight before he's back, this time on the other side of the window. He wanders out of the locker room, ancient gym shorts, a ripped up T-shirt that exposes his arms and abdomen, and decrepit old sneaks. It's like movement in the room stops as everyone looks at him, and he is, of course, oblivious. He rolls his shoulders, shifts his head from side to side, shakes his arms out and then does a few deep knee bends. I think all the women in the center and half of the men are drooling at him at this point, and I can feel the heat in my own face. He is so clueless as to how good he looks.

He looks around the room again and I almost chuckle as I see heads drop and the brightly clad lycra and spandex crowd get back to what they were doing. He seems to note where everyone is, taking in how many there are, what they're doing, how they're doing it, before his eyes light on me. He smiles and I flush again, then drop my head, determined to get to work.

I focus on my grading for a while, making some headway through the pile. I'm jotting notes as I go, mumbling to myself, and I cannot believe what some of these kids have written. I have to wonder if they ever really listen in class, because some of these comments are so out there, it's unbelievable.

I glance up periodically and watch Jim. He's totally focused on what he's doing. He started with his arms, and I can see that I'm not the only one watching him. Most of these kids have never seen a serious workout before. They come to jog on the treadmill or use the Stairmaster, but those are only secondary considerations to the real point of all this: to see and be seen. For them to see someone so serious about what he's doing must be a bit of a shock.

I sigh and put down my pen. I've lost my concentration again. I need to read and grade these essays, but I'm too distracted. I'm on edge, convulsed with that feeling that something is going to happen. I lean back in the chair and watch Jim -- and watch the rest of the kids watching him as well. He's working his legs now, and I see more than a few eyes bug out when he starts at 300 pounds. I can't help but grin and bits of me tingle in anticipation as I think of what those legs feel like, pressed against me, wrapped around my waist ....

I shake my head and sigh, then watch as he runs through a quick set with the dumbbells before heading to the treadmill. He sheds his shirt, and I can almost hear the hearts in the room race; it makes me smile again. Mine -- all mine.

I'm watching him run now, watching the sweat trickle down his face, his chest, his arms. He's focused inward but not with that look I associate with a runner's high; this is a furrowed look of concentration mixed with something that could almost be pain. He's running -- hard, but easy, if that makes any sense, and it almost looks as if he's trying to run away from something. Everything about him looks wrong. I may not be his regular gym buddy, but I've seen him work out often enough to know that these are not the facial expressions of a man who's being flooded with good endorphins. He's struggling with something.

I look again and realize that he's not just sweating -- he's crying. Oh, God! I'm not ready for this! I rise and stand at the window, staring desperately at him as he leaps off the treadmill and grabs his T-shirt, burying his face in it.

I don't think anyone else realizes that something is wrong, but I do. Jim's about to lose it -- I just don't know how it's going to happen yet. He looks up and sees me watching him, but he can barely meet my eyes. He's searching frantically for something and as I watch, he heads over to the corner where the heavy bag is -- the fitness center's concession to an old-fashioned PE Department Chair.

I have to get in there -- now.

I race around to the locker room, almost fall on my ass on the wet floor by the showers, then fly through the door into the main room. Everyone looks up to see my panicked entrance. I look around -- I know that kid. I move over to him quickly and tell him I need him to clear the center. He's confused and I get the standard, "What's going on, Professor Sandburg?" but I just tell him that I'll take responsibility, but I need everyone out. "And low key, Jason," I add. "This is personal and I don't need everyone in the damn school coming over here to see what's going on." He nods, then drafts a couple of buddies and I am peripherally aware of the center clearing as the sounds of Jim's fists on the bag begin to echo in the room.

He's pounding the bag savagely, the staccato beat of his knuckles on the bag punctuated by wordless cries and almost animalistic growls -- threat, pain, confusion, fear.

I approach him slowly, cautiously. I'm not sure where he is -- where his mind has taken him. I can't help him if he knocks me cold, and he'd never forgive himself if he hurt me. "Jim?" I call quietly, not really expecting an answer but knowing I have to try.

He's beating the bag, frenetic strokes of arms as big around as small trees. "Jim!" I call again, my voice low but intense. He's beginning to scare me, not for myself but for him. His face is twisted in pain and yet, somehow, he looks fragile, as if he's about to break.

And then I realize -- he is. About to break. Maybe he already has.

He pounds the bag again and again, unintelligible sounds falling from his lips, his face contorted in agony at something only he can see. What images have driven him here? What has he conjured up that hurts him so?

He drops his arms suddenly and the bag slams into his chest, but he is like a rock -- immovable. Those massive arms reach out and encircle the bag, arms that are so gentle with me, that make me feel so safe and secure and protected, and yet now, I am reminded of the strength and power he keeps leashed as the bag actually cinches in where he squeezes. He clutches the bag to his chest, his face buried against the coarse canvas cover. He stands there, chest heaving, eyes clenched shut, panting through his open mouth. Then his head falls back and he roars, "I CAN'T DO ANYTHING! I'M HELPLESS!"

My heart skips a beat, my breath catches in my chest. I want to run to him but there is something so private, so intense in what he is experiencing, that I'm not sure my touch would be welcome. He's proud, this man I love. I don't want to embarrass him or make him ashamed of what he'll see as a loss of control. But I don't know if I can keep my distance. I don't know if I can stand by and watch him suffer like this -- not if there is anything I can do to help ease his pain.

His head is buried against the canvas again, and I have to strain to make out his words. "I'm helpless," he whispers, his weight sagging against the bag he holds so tightly.

I can't stand back. I can't protect his pride, not at the expense of his heart. I've cleared the room, assured that there is no one here except for him and me, and I can make no choice but to go to him, to be there for him, as he has been there for me these many months. I step forward carefully, so aware of the power, the strength that lies coiled within him, not wanting to startle or spook him. I touch his back, then move forward, pressing my body against his. "Jim," I say, my lips at his ear as I tug on his arm. He stiffens at my touch, then sways, unbalanced.

It's been said by some that the three most important words in the English language are 'I love you." Still others claim that the words 'Let me help' hold that honor. And while each phrase has its time, the time when it is, indeed, the most important thing to say, at this moment there are three words that mean more and carry more weight than any others.

"Let it go."

Let go of the bag.

Let go of the anger.

Let go of the pain.

Let go of the guilt.

Let it all go.

Let go and know that I will catch you.

He leans against me, then collapses into my waiting arms. He's heavy, but I'm stronger than I look, and I hold him up, surrounding him with my strength, my presence, my love, before I guide him to the floor. I settle him against me, pulling him with me to lean against the wall. He curls around me, his body that is so much larger than mine, suddenly small in his grief and pain.

Tears fill my eyes as I stand witness to his suffering. The suffering he endures because of things that happened to me many years ago. I am humbled by the gift of his pain. No one has hurt for me before -- no one has cared. "It's as hard for you as it is for me, isn't it?" I say, my voice broken and heavy with emotion.

But he shakes his head vehemently, denying my words. "Never! Nothing I feel ... what happened to you ... what Don did ... what Frank ...."

He can't finish. He buries his head against me, too overcome with emotion to speak more.

He feels bad that he feels so bad. So like my Jim. It's as if he's afraid that acknowledging his own pain and anger somehow diminishes what I lived through. He sees what he feels now as a betrayal of me and a weakness in himself. I see it as the single biggest gift anyone has ever given me. That someone cares so much for me ....

"It's all right," I tell him, trying to reassure him, wishing he could know how loved he makes me feel. "It hurts you, too, and that's okay. You're allowed to feel pain over this."

"I'm not ... it wasn't me ...." He stutters his objection, his eyes full of fear that somehow he's done something wrong, broken some unwritten code that says only I have the right to feel pain over these memories.

"It's all right, Jim. You can hurt, you can be in pain because of this," I tell him again. And then I remind him of something I've told him many times before. "Feelings aren't right or wrong, they just are."

His eyes still brim, fat drops that roll down his cheeks one slow tear at a time. "But you ...."

"Your feelings don't change mine, Jim," I say softly. "I still carry my own pain, deal with my own emotions."

His face colors and I know he is ashamed of his self-perceived weakness. "I want to be strong for you," he whispers as he drops his head again, curling close to my side.

"You have been. You are," I assure him. I don't know how I would have survived these months without his strength. But it's my turn now. It's my turn to be strong for him. "But you still hurt, don't you?"

He's still for a long time, then hesitantly, almost timidly, he nods.

"Then let me be strong for you. Just for a little while. You've carried me for months, Jim. It's okay to let go now." I pet his head, a soothing motion that seems to calm him as I pull him closer, hold him tighter. "I'm here."

"How can you be so strong?" he asks, his voice small and lost.

"What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger," I say softly. "You, of all people, know that.

He's still again, quiescent in my arms, but then his breathing picks up. His chest heaves and he clutches me like a drowning man clings to a raft. He gasps once, then again, straining desperately for elusive control that falters and then falls away, and before I know it, he is weeping against my side, wailing, "I can't do anything!" The tears stream -- my shirt is soaked -- and I can feel his fingers fist and release where he clings to me as he tries valiantly to recapture his standard restraint, his typical stoicism. A last sob is choked out and in a small, lost voice he whimpers, "I'm helpless -- useless."

My heart is breaking to see him like this. I want nothing more than to soothe him, to comfort him, to somehow take it all away, to undo it if it would save him this agony. But those things are beyond me so I have to content myself with what comfort I can give. "You're here for me," I reassure him. "You've been my rock, Jim. The only person who's ever been there for me all the time, the only person who didn't leave."

He grasps me tightly, winding his arms around me as he breathes, "I love you, I love you."

I lean over and nuzzle his neck then whisper into his ear, "I've never had anyone hurt for me before. I've never had anyone grieve for me."

His body convulses for a moment, shaking uncontrollably and I pull him closer, impossibly close, petting him, my hand stroking his back, my fingers in his close-cropped hair as I settle him lower and rest his head in my lap. "Let it go, Jim," I murmur Sentinel-soft, my words for him alone. "Let me be strong -- I need to be strong."

He nods and finally his tears slow and then stop. He's left curled around me, six foot, two inches reduced to small, huddling against me for comfort. I am awed at the trust he shows me.

I wonder at his need to keep me close today. Did he know this was going to happen? Was he afraid to be alone? Or did this catch him as much by surprise as it did me? Whichever it was, I find myself wondering if I will ever be able to tell him just how much it means to me that he trusts me with this most private part of himself. That he lets me see him like this, not just lets me be with him, but actively seeks me out and draws strength and comfort from my presence.

He's wound around me, his arms and legs entangled with mine to the point that it's almost impossible to tell where one of us ends and the other begins. I'm murmuring to him, those non-words that he's used with me so many times of late. Sounds that do nothing more than evoke feelings of safety, trust, faith, acceptance -- love.

It's been months since we started this journey, exploring my past, facing my ghosts, and I can't imagine having made this trip with anyone other than him. He's been my support, my strength, my anchor through it all.

And here, in the corner of a gym, behind a flimsy screen that grants nothing more than the illusion of privacy, I find that I am all those things to him as well and it fills me with gratitude. Out of my past, I have found my future.

Out of sorrow, joy.

Out of anger, comfort.

Out of grief, happiness.

Out of pain, love.