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When I first started going to a psychiatrist to be evaluated for bipolar, my husband said he couldn’t see it. He’s always known about my depressive episodes – I’ve been on meds for that for over 20 years. I told him that of course he didn’t see it, because the manic symptoms have always been at their worst and my behavior at its most abnormal when he’s not around. The milder hypomanias don’t seem all that unusual to an observer, either.

As I’ve started treatment and began being much more open with him about my emotional state, he’s been incredibly supportive in his typically quiet way. But I have to give some serious props to my husband for a brief conversation last night, paraphrased:

Me: “Why do you put up with me?”

Hubby: “I’m not putting up with you. I love you.”

Me: “But I’m so distractable and moody and I don’t mean to be so difficult…”

Hubby: “So?”

Me, tears in my eyes: “Sorry I’m sad for no reason.”

Hubby: “You’re sad because your body is messed up. That’s a reason and it’s not your fault. I love you anyway.”

That is what love, support, and acceptance looks like in my house. Pretty amazing, right?

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