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.
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.
And I’m the luckiest girl in the world.