He Loves Me

He loves me.

He loves me even though I have a diagnosis of Bipolar disorder.

Even though I’m not great with the whole “mushy” thing, and generally show my affection through sarcasm and teasing.

Even when he found me on the bathroom floor covered in blood.

He loves me even though I mock his beard and continually enquire as to when he is going to enter Whisker Wars.

And even though I changed my ringtone for him to “I’m Sexy and I Know It” by LMFAO. And when he complained, changed it to the Star Wars “Imperial March”

He loves me when I’m manic. And I call him up at some ungodly hour from the hospital. To inform him that I am going to bake a cake.

Even when I was psychotic and began to believe that he may actually be a criminal mastermind.

He loves me when I have to cancel the “date night” we rarely are able to have because I have had an allergic reaction to something.

He even waits outside the toilet with a glass of water.

He loves me even though I fall asleep during every damn movie we watch. Then he patiently restarts it the next night and asks me “what is the last thing you remember.” To which I reply; “I don’t know. I was asleep!”

He loves me even though I have scars, and stretch marks, and a post childbirth body. He says he loves me even more.

He loved me on the days I couldn’t get out of bed. The days I told him I couldn’t keep on living.

He saved my life. More than once. And he didn’t stop loving me.

He loves me even though I sing “The Thong Song” every time he mentions his Cisco qualifications.

He loves me even when I ask him inane questions. Like “If you had to sleep with either Susan Boyle or The Queen who would be the lucky lady?” And he will be all “neither.” And I will say “You have to choose. Or the world will DIE.” And this happens most days.

And also when I strap a garden gnome in his car, or tuck it into his side of the bed, or sit it on the toilet, and then upon discovery gleefully tell him that “he has been Gnomed!”

Even when I have been frogmarched by security guards.

Even when I forgot pretty much everything after ECT.

He loves me even though I veto his music choices on car journeys.

He lets me put on my playlist.

And doesn’t complain.

Much.

In the ten years we have been together I have spent a total of eight months in hospital, had at least 3 manic episodes, a handful of mixed episodes and countless depressions. He knows Bipolar disorder is episodic. That it may happen again. He still loves me.

He tells me every day he loves me. And every night before we go to sleep.

He loves me.

Me.

And I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

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The Humour in Hot Dogs

The following is an actual conversation Hubster and I had over dinner.

Hubster: You’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?
Me: Human evolution and the world in general.
H: Oh boy, here we go. Dare I ask?
Me: Well. I was just thinking about how in the animal kingdom when animals show their teeth it is, like, a really threatening thing to do. It’s like “Back of Buster. Get your paws off my mate you filthy son of a saber.”
H: Well…yeah…
Me: But in human society we literally BARE our teeth when we meet people through smiling. Don’t you think that is kind of sinister? It’s like…am I pleased to see you or is that a gun in my pocket? Am I smiling, or am I about to rip your head off? Who can tell?
H: Well, aside from the fact that unless you are a character out of Buffy you generally don’t attack people with your teeth.
Me: Hmmm. Very true. We attack with fists and weapons. I guess if I met someone and immediately adopted a Kung Fu pose that would be pretty threatening.
H: If YOU met someone and immediately adopted a Kung Fu pose it would be pretty amusing. Threatening? Not so much.
Me: I’m a lover not a fighter.
H: I’ll remind of you that next time I leave the toilet seat up.

kungfu
* friendly contemplative silence*

Me: And then, of course, there is the whole tail conundrum.
H: Do I want to know?
Me: Well, if you had a tail what type would you have?
H: I don’t have a tail.
Me: But if you did. What type? Would you like a long bushy one? A curly one like a pig? One of those weird flap things sheep have? In a world with no limits…what’s your ideal tail?
H: Not having a tail?
Me: You cannot tell me that you’ve lived your entire life and never thought about your hypothetical tail.
H: I haven’t.
Me: Well as a deep thinking type, I’ve given it some thought and I really feel the monkey tail would be best for me. It would be like having three hands. Master D could hang on to it while I hold the shopping bags in the other hands. I could be chopping up an onion while simultaneously opening the oven door with my tail.
H: Well, I’m glad you have given it some thought.
Me: So. What’s your tail type?
H: Not having a tail?
Me: You’re only saying that because you KNOW it would be a pigs tail.
H: Sigh.
Me: But just think, if we did have tails, so many things would be different.
H: Our butts?
Me: Well yeah. But I meant, wow, our pants and chairs would have to have tail holes. We’d probably need to go to the “Tail dresser” to maintain our good looks. There would be whole sections of Cosmopolitan magazine holding debates on “What do men prefer? The waxed or natural tail?”.
H: Oh God…
Me: And think about it. Would what if you met someone you didn’t like, you would have to FORCE your tail to wag, even though it instinctively wanted to droop. Forget table manners, we’d teach our kids “Tail Manners”. “Kids! Stop pulling each others tails!”. “I don’t care what you think of Great Aunt Edna, Jimmy. When you see her give her a hug and wag your tail!” Really it would be one more aspect of your life to try and control. It’s probably a good thing we don’t have tails.
H: Well, I’m glad that’s sorted then.

*Approximately 10 seconds of silence*

Me: I do have a very important question for you though.
H: Go on.
Me: What would you do if your willy caught fire?
H: *Drops silverware. Covers eyes. Makes noise akin to a cow giving birth*
Me: Well?
H: You know what. I don’t even have a response for that question. How would that even HAPPEN in the first place –
Me: Unfortunate barbequeing accident? Sausage mix up?

H: – and I wish you wouldn’t call it a “willy”…you know what. no. Got nothing.
Me: Well you’re just no fun.
H: For not wanting to think about my nether regions being fried?
Me: We live in a country that hails the barbecue. It is an important issue.
H: We can never just have normal conversations can we?
Me: You wouldn’t have married me if you wanted normal.
H: I think that is the only thing you have said tonight that has made any sense.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is putting up with your wife and her inane drivel…

…and putting up with your husband when he just doesn’t see the humour in hot dogs.

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Just a Little Patience…

 

I’m not a patient person. I’m really not. I’ve tried – believe me! But patience really seems to be a virtue that I don’t have.

Don’t get me wrong. I can be patient with people. Or with animals. But when it comes down to tasks, work, ideas and such, I just can’t seem to wait. I want things done now. No, I want things done yesterday.

I’m the type of person who, mid lunch, decides a yellow wall would look good in the dining area. I’m the type of person who leaves her lunch, goes out, buys gallons of yellow paint, and sloshes it onto the wall before her husband even comes home from work. “Surprise!” I’ll say, before telling him to stay out of the way because “I will do a better job”.

Hubster calls me impulsive at best, occasionally silly, and always impatient. You see, Steven is the opposite of me. He’s methodological. Calculated. Careful. He spends months researching things before buying them. I can’t be bothered with doing all of that!

Anyway, where am I going with this?

If there is one thing that I have learned over the past 12 months, it’s that when you are a patient in hospital, you have to be exactly that. Patient. You wait to be seen, wait to be admitted, wait for a diagnosis, wait for a treatment plan. The waiting is seemingly endless.

When I was in the MBU I remember complaining to Hubster one afternoon that I wanted to go home. I was so homesick it hurt. I’d had enough. “You need to be patient!” Hubster told me. “you can’t expect things to change overnight.”

“But I’m not a patient patient!” I complained. “In fact. I’m an impatient inpatient!”

A few nights ago I ended up in hospital.  It was a combination of a nasty virus and severe dehydration – probably not helped by the fact that I had unknowingly taken medication which interacts with lithium. It was a long night for both Hubster and I, longer for him though, it would seem.  I was surprised when I did the math. We were in hospital for around 12 hours. 4 of those hours were spent waiting in the emergency room. Add on perhaps another 1 hour for seeing the doctor and getting hooked up to an IV. That leaves SEVEN hours unaccounted for.

I asked Hubster what I was doing, and he said that I was asleep.  Not surprising after a combination of narcotics, sedatives and anti-psychotics. The point of this is that my poor Hubster waited for seven hours in an uncomfortable plastic chair by my bedside, without a single complaint.

You see, patience isn’t the ability to wait. It’s the ability to wait without complaint. And boy, this man has patience.  Through depression, through mania, through sickness, through hospitalisations, through psychosis and everything in between he has never complained. I wish I had the patience that he possesses.

It never ceases to amaze me the love and support that this man offers me. He lights my way through the darkest of days. He holds me down lest I fly away. He is always, always there for me. My best advocate, my greatest support.

So Hubster, I hope you understand that words are inadequate in describing the length and the breadth and the depth of the love and adoration I have for you. I know sometimes I am infuriating. I know that sometimes it may not seem like I appreciate you. But please, please know that I always love and adore you. I hope you know that I can never understand what you have been through – for in some ways I believe this can be harder for the supporter than the patient  – but I appreciate it more than I can ever describe. Every day I wake up, thankful that I have you standing by my side. Thank you for everything, my love. You are my world.