(Rose: "Ruby Wedding.")

Sunday.

Turns out it wasn’t. The right thing.

From a simplistic point of view, that is.

Bink did gain from the therapy session, yes. But not as much as the stress and exhaustion of going to it set her back.

She only went to please me. And – Shaun told me afterwards – sobbed all the way. Because she feels so utterly useless. Because she can’t even wash.

“Why do you keep saying sorry?” she asked me the next morning.

“For making you go.”

“You didn’t. It was my decision. It’s not your fault. I realised it mattered a lot more to you than it did to me.”

And we now understand one another better, anyway. Which is a lot of what living with someone is about.

I understand why she might not go into the Priory as early as 10th September, when she could: because she wants to get her washing more under control; and her Lorazepam intake; and hopes she may gain even more from the treatment if she’s not quite so ill when she starts.

And she understands why I was so upset that she cancelled her therapy: because I thought it was my fault; because I hadn’t reassured her that I’d washed my hands with soap; so because I was trying to undo the damage I’d done.

Obviously, love is not enough. Bink has had all the love of God and man for all her life, and she is still more ill than it is possible to believe.

But it’s not a bad start, is it?

Bink was able to put my needs above her own. And that is the first and most fundamental kick in the teeth to the devil rubbing his evil little hands at the heart of her diabolical illness. Insanity's primary hostage is unselfishness: love, the most powerful antidote to lunacy.

If she can do that... if she can step outside herself, if she can care about someone else more than she fears her own terrors... she can be well.

I love you, Bink.