Living with and loving an emotionally manipulative, suicidal partner.
On the outside, we were that perfect, silly couple that everyone wanted to be and know. He was a charmer and it wasn't uncommon for women to fall for him. When things were good, they were grand; every happy moment was an addictive high. I kept the lows hidden.
We moved from a very busy city to a small town out west so that he could finish school; he never did. Over time, he isolated me from my friends and family. Before we moved, he controlled me by threatening to commit suicide any time I wanted to make plans with my friends. After the move, I didn't make new friends because he never wanted to go out. He'd pick fights before my Skype or Hangout dates with my family. A few times, he would threaten to self-harm beforehand or claim that he swallowed a ton of pills. Of course, I'd cancel any existing plans to take care of him. I'd calm him down and he'd lock himself in the bathroom, trying to expel all of the pills so that he wouldn't overdose.
I begged and pleaded with him to get help. First, it was that the receptionist at the school psychologist's office was rude, so he refused to return; then it was that the private practice was too expensive, even though they had a sliding scale and he'd qualify. He made appointments but would not follow through. A few times, he was hospitalized, and here's where things got trickier: he'd tell the hospital staff anything they wanted to hear so that he could leave. He refused their help.
The few times he'd go to class were the highlights of my days; I could go places and have time to myself... until he came home early from class one day and was upset to find me gone because he needed my support. We fought about it and I had to wrestle a razorblade out of his hands to stop him from self-harming. This became routine, then he started to blame me for not taking away his (hidden and purchased without my knowledge) blades and pills.
It finally got to me; I contacted my family and my dad flew to meet me and drive with me back home. My ex was somehow calm and cordial throughout the move; he helped me load my truck with my things, joked with my dad, smiled with me, wished me well -- enough to make me almost doubt myself and my decision. Things were calm at first after I moved away; we texted a few times, then he wrote me some lengthy emails. He could switch emotions on a dime; I don't remember what happened in between the nice ones and the next part, but he wrote me an incredibly long message and attached a photograph of his wrist slit open (and not just some surface wound; something incredibly deep and graphic). He posted all over social media that he was killing himself and that it was my fault, then he called me on the phone and threatened some more. I knew that he was back with his ex (who he'd previously deemed crazy and evil); while he was on the phone with me, I emailed her and she called the police so that they could take him to the hospital. Seeing that picture is what really broke me. I couldn't look at it; even seeing the email subject come up when I searched my inbox was too much and I deleted every message from him across every network that I could.
After his stay in the hospital, he emailed me again with a promise that he was going to sue me for mental abuse and negligence. I didn't respond. Two days later, another email; I also didn't respond. Many months passed. He emailed me once more after that to say that I was a bitch, but he understood why I had to leave and that I was strong, but it was still kinda sorta my fault. His ex also contacted me around the same time span. Didn't reply to either and happily, they are out of my life (and staying that way).