Yes, this one concerns a bit o’ mental illness…
But it’s really a Valentine’s Day story. (With a tiny bit of mental illness all up in there too.)
I promise that it is.
So. Back when I was little, I was convinced that the perfect Valentine’s Day involved cellophane-wrapped hearts and truckloads of roses and lilies and Golden Era romantic comedies on a loop. (To be quite honest, that is the perfect Valentine’s Day. It just is.)
But as I’ve gotten older- and as life has begun to occasionally whack me with 2x4s- my definition of the perfect Valentine’s Day has morphed. And maybe it’s because my perfect Valentine possesses qualities I didn’t know that I’d someday need on a molecular level way back when I was a little kid in the mid-80s.
As some of you guys know (and as I’ve slightly touched upon in this space recently), I had a pretty rough December after a bad reaction to my immunosuppressants. Seemingly overnight, I went from a tightly wound (but generally cheerful) gal with joint pain to a fairly sick (and generally terrified) gal…still with joint pain. I lost a ton of weight in a creepily short span of time, had to relearn actual hunger cues, and was diagnosed with an acute panic disorder. (Fa la la.)
But back to Valentine’s Day.
Now, no marriage vows ever include the phrase “I hope to navigate the murky waters of mental illness with you,” but P.J. is nothing if not generous with the letter of the law. He took “in sickness and in health” extremely seriously, and so here’s what Valentine’s Day looks like year ’round over here:
When I discovered that a specific brand of coconut rice pudding tasted fairly magnificent to me, P.J. bought out the rest of the remaining flats at Costco. (You guys, that is so much rice pudding.)
Sometimes we sit on the kitchen floor and hold hands while one of us cries for no reason. (The spouse who isn’t currently crying usually says something like “This floor’s great. Sitting here is perfectly fine. We literally have nowhere else to be except this really nice floor.”)
An electric blanket wrapped around us- against a veritable mountain of pillows- is the perfect spot to watch Jeopardy and soothing clips of media where nothing stressful happens, ever.
Small acts are celebrated. All small acts are celebrated. When something feels scary but I do it anyhow, that’s celebrated. When the legit only thing I can cross off of my to-do list is “getting people where they need to be and making sure they’re clean and fed and safely asleep at home” at the end of the day, that’s celebrated. (With a high five.)
Emails are answered on my behalf and phone calls are made and plans are cancelled at the last-minute because, you know what? We didn’t really need to go out tonight. Sometimes going out is the worst.
He reminds me how to breathe. He stands there and takes deep breaths with me to ensure that I remember how to breathe.
Love notes are texted throughout the day.
Articles from ‘the Onion’ are texted throughout the day.
Household stuff is deemed totally unimportant (…and finished after he tucks me in for the night).
And when I tell him that everything he’s saying and doing and clearing feels superbly unequal to what a real partnership should be, he tells me that, although we don’t call people stupid, I really need to stop being stupid about stuff like that.
Besides, he says, although I can do all of this stuff by myself- he has zero doubt about that- he likes to hang out with me and, you know, do all this stuff too.
And holy moly…
…Does that make me the luckiest Valentine ever to emote over written words of encouragement and love and, sure, some PG-13 kinda stuff in a beautiful card (which he never, ever remembers to seal before handing it over and which I’ll always, always find hilarious).
I have no idea how long I’ll be navigating panic and anxiety and the pendulum of mental illness, but I’m so grateful to have a partner who steadies me, hides under the covers with me, and tirelessly reminds me that I’m more than labels or bad thoughts or unproductive days.
Happy Valentine’s Day, P.J. I know you don’t like it when I say I’d be facedown in a ditch without you…
…But I totally would be. Ditchville, population Me.
Facedown in it.
(And thanks for the truckload of roses.)
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