〔 YEAR 2002 〕
Even after we returned to Europe, Éli remained deeply worried about me.
I noticed it in the small, quiet ways she carried herself around me. Sometimes I would catch her watching me from across the room, her eyes lingering a little too long before she looked away. Other times, she would fall silent in the middle of a conversation, as if she had been studying my expression without realizing it. There was always a tension behind her gaze, a subtle uneasiness that she tried her best to hide. It was the kind of look someone gives when they fear that something fragile might suddenly break.
As if she were waiting for something terrible to happen.
Eventually, she convinced me to visit a doctor she trusted. At first I resisted the idea, brushing it aside whenever she mentioned it. I told her that I was simply tired, that I only needed rest, that there was nothing truly wrong with me. But Éli was persistent in a gentle way. She never forced the matter, yet she never stopped bringing it up either.
After a while, I agreed.
What followed were several appointments spread across many weeks. Long conversations in quiet offices, where doctors asked careful questions and listened closely to my answers. At times I felt as though they were trying to look past the words I spoke, searching instead for the thoughts I kept hidden underneath them.
Eventually, the diagnosis became clear.
I was suffering from depression and anxiety.
The doctors recommended therapy almost immediately. They explained it calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To them it was simply another treatment plan, something practical and necessary.
But I resisted.
The truth behind my reluctance was embarrassingly simple. I did not like the thought that Éli was the one paying for everything. The consultations, the medications, the therapy sessions. Every appointment added another cost, and every cost came from her own pocket.
It weighed heavily on me.
It felt wrong that someone like her had to spend so much money just to keep someone like me functioning. I could not shake the feeling that I was becoming a burden in her life, someone who required constant care and resources simply to exist.
That year became one of the darkest periods of my life.
There were many nights when the thoughts grew unbearable. Nights when the silence of the room seemed to amplify everything that was already wrong inside my mind. I often found myself wondering whether anyone would truly notice if I simply disappeared.
At times I felt like an unwanted presence among others, like a sore thumb that did not belong anywhere.
One memory from that year has remained especially vivid in my mind.
It was New Year's Eve.
The city outside was alive with celebration. Fireworks burst across the sky in bright, fleeting colors that reflected against the windows of nearby buildings. People filled the streets, their voices rising in laughter and excitement. Somewhere in the distance, poppers cracked sharply, followed by the cheerful noise of music drifting through the cold night air.
I welcomed the new year surrounded by friends.
Éli was beside me as well, close enough that our shoulders brushed from time to time.
To anyone watching, it must have looked like a perfect moment. A group of friends gathered together, raising their glasses as the final seconds of the year disappeared. There were smiles, cheers, and embraces as midnight arrived.
But inside my mind, the noise and joy around me only made the emptiness feel louder.
At some point during the celebration, I quietly stepped away from the others. I wandered toward the balcony of the hotel where we were staying, seeking a moment of quiet away from the crowd.
The cold night air greeted me as I stepped outside.
I leaned slightly over the railing and looked down at the streets below. From that height, the people looked small and distant, like moving figures in a painting illuminated by the glow of fireworks.
For a brief moment, a strange thought crossed my mind.
I wondered how long it would take to reach the ground if I jumped.
The thought passed quickly, but the feeling behind it lingered.
There was always a contradiction living inside me during those days. A kind of paradox that I could never fully resolve. On the surface, my life appeared stable. I had people who cared about me, a future that others admired, and opportunities that many would have considered fortunate.
Yet inside, something essential felt missing.
Even when Éli proposed to me later that year, I struggled to feel the happiness that should have come naturally.
The proposal itself was beautiful. She had arranged a romantic dinner at a restaurant that she had rented entirely for the evening. The place was quiet and softly lit, with candles flickering across the tables and gentle music filling the air.
A few photographers stood discreetly along the edges of the room, careful not to interrupt the moment.
At the center of the room stood a large sign displaying the question.
And there she was.
Éli knelt down on one knee in front of me, holding a small red box carefully in her hands. When she opened it, the ring inside caught the light and shimmered softly.
For a moment, everything around us seemed to fall silent.
I loved her.
I truly did.
But even then, something inside me felt distant, as if I had misplaced an important piece of myself somewhere along the way and never managed to find it again.
As the months passed, my struggles grew heavier.
Eventually, I began taking my medications in doses higher than what had been prescribed. At the time, I convinced myself that I was only doing it because the pills were not working fast enough. I told myself that increasing the dosage would simply help me recover sooner.
But the truth was far darker than that.
Deep down, a small part of me hoped that one day I would simply fall asleep and never wake up again.
〔 YEAR 2003 〕
Everything began to change when the Netherlands legalized same sex marriage.
For the first time, loving Élisabeth did not feel like something forbidden. Until then, our relationship had always carried a quiet sense of caution. Even when we were happy together, there had always been an invisible boundary around us, a reminder that the world did not fully accept people like us.
But that moment felt different.
A government had openly acknowledged that people like us deserved the same rights as everyone else.
It may have seemed like a simple legal decision to many, just another change in policy. Yet for us, it meant far more than that. It felt like a door quietly opening after years of being shut.
For the first time in years, I could look at Éli without the lingering fear that we were doing something wrong.
Not long after that, we got married.
Around the same time, I reached another milestone that I had been working toward for many years.
I finally became a doctor.
The two events felt strangely intertwined. One represented the life I had built through years of study and perseverance. The other represented the person I had chosen to share that life with.
Now that we were legally recognized as wives under Dutch law, I slowly began attending therapy sessions as well. At first the experience was uncomfortable. Speaking openly about my thoughts felt unnatural, almost intrusive, as if I were exposing parts of myself that had always been kept hidden.
But over time, it helped more than I had expected.
Little by little, the conversations began to untangle thoughts that had long been knotted together inside my mind.
Even today, I remain deeply grateful to that therapist. She helped me confront questions that I had been too afraid to ask anyone else.
However, peace rarely lasts forever.
Soon after our marriage, Éli's parents began pressuring us to have a child.
At first I thought they were mocking our relationship. The suggestion sounded absurd to me. After all, how could two women possibly have a baby together?
When I shared my concerns with Éli, she listened quietly before offering a simple response.
She told me that she would find a way.
And eventually, she did.
〔 YEAR 2004 〕
Our frequent trips to the Netherlands gradually stopped feeling like simple visits.
Instead, they became part of a long and complicated process. Éli began searching for specialists who could help us fulfill her parents' expectations. The process involved consultations with fertility experts, medical examinations, and careful planning that stretched across many months.
She underwent several procedures to improve her fertility before eventually having her eggs harvested.
Meanwhile, I took on the responsibility of finding a sperm donor who would be suitable for both of us. It was a strange task, one that required us to think carefully about genetics, medical histories, and compatibility in ways that most couples never needed to consider.
The entire process was expensive, complicated, and emotionally exhausting.
There were endless consultations, medical procedures, and waiting periods that seemed to stretch on forever. Some days it felt as though our lives had become a series of appointments and test results.
But eventually, after all the effort and money we had invested, it worked.
I became pregnant.
The pregnancy itself was far from easy. My body struggled to keep up with the changes that came with it. I developed anemia and a severe calcium deficiency, both of which weakened me significantly. There were days when even simple tasks felt exhausting.
At one point, one of my teeth chipped unexpectedly because my body lacked the nutrients it needed.
Still, we endured those months together.
Despite the difficulties, there were also quiet moments of anticipation. Small reminders that something new was slowly growing within me, something that would change both of our lives forever.
Then finally, on August 22, 2004, everything changed.
My son was born.
He remains, to this day, the only child I will ever have and forever the apple of my eye.