Mark didn't notice the mask at first.
Not because he was blind. But because he was good.
He was a knight in shining armor, or at least, a knight with a shining smile and a patience that I didn't deserve.
When I first told him, about six months into our relationship, I expected him to run. I sat him down on my beige sofa, my hands trembling, and I told him that my brain was broken.
I told him about the static. I told him about the days I couldn't get out of bed.
I waited for the "It's not you, it's me." I waited for the dust cloud of his exit.
Instead, he pulled me into his lap. He kissed my forehead.
"So, you have a leaky brain," he said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "We can work with leaks. I'm pretty handy."
He made it sound so simple. Like a dripping faucet or a squeaky door. Something that could be fixed with enough love and WD-40.
God only knows how hard that man tried to fix me.
He became the guardian of my happiness. He researched supplements. He planned dates in sunny places because he read sunlight helps serotonin. He learned when to talk and when to just sit there and hold my hand while I stared at the wall.
And there were moments—tiny, precious fractals of time—where the smile was kind of real.
Usually, it was when I was in his arms.
His arms were the only place where my demons hesitated to attack. It was like a holy circle. As long as his skin was touching mine, the static quieted down. The monsters stood at the perimeter, growling, but they couldn't get in.
I felt safe.
But safety isn't the same thing as joy.
We would make love on Sunday mornings. The light would be filtering through the blinds, painting stripes on the sheets.
He was gentle. He was passionate. He looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world, like I was a prize he had won.
I loved him. I did.
But even then, my brain wouldn't shut up.
He would be kissing my neck, his hands moving over my body, and I would be somewhere else. I would be floating above the bed, watching us.
Overthinking.
Am I reacting enough?Is this what he wants?Should I moan now? Is it too soon? Is it too loud?Should I move my hips like this, or like that?
I was directing a scene instead of living it.
"Is this okay?" he would whisper, breathless against my ear.
"Yes," I would whisper back. "It's perfect."
And it was perfect. For him.
For me, it was a performance of intimacy. I wanted to lose myself in it. I wanted to turn my brain off and just be a body, feeling pleasure.
But the guilt was always there, sitting on the nightstand like a vulture.
I felt guilty for not enjoying it enough. I felt guilty that he was pouring all this love into me, and I was a bucket with a hole in the bottom.
He would collapse next to me afterwards, happy, exhausted, pulling me into his chest.
"I love you," he would say, stroking my hair.
"I love you too," I would reply.
And I would lie there, listening to his heartbeat, trying to grab onto that feeling of connection.
I tried to hold it. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to trap the happiness inside my chest.
Stay, I begged it. Just stay for one hour.
But it was like trying to hold water in your hands. No matter how tight I squeezed my fingers, it always slipped through.
Eventually, he would fall asleep.
And I would be left awake. In his arms, in the safest place in the world, feeling completely and utterly alone.
That was the worst part.
Knowing that even the Knight couldn't save the damsel, because the dragon wasn't outside the tower.
The dragon was inside the damsel's head.