Hope on a Sunday.

My husband had been unreachable since his disappearance. His movements and speech were slow, and painfully hopeless. He was inside his hell, and I couldn’t get in to retrieve him. I told him about a lovely doctor I had confided in, and he agreed to come with me on Sunday to the practice. This gentle man with a timbered voice listened after asking about my partner’s experiences in childhood and as an adult. He described his restlessness, his recklessness, his over-the-top behaviour and the savage, meteorite crashes onto earth. “I believe you have bi-polar, and have been trying to regulate your moods with alcohol,” the doctor finally spoke. He prescribed two different drug classes, one an anti-depressant and the other Lithium. When he indicated that it would be a hard, slow road, whilst the dosages were tweaked, but that the result would be that my husband would feel better than he had his whole adult life, my man broke down. I cried too. He may start to experience what it means to feel alive as opposed to feeling hyper or under-stimulated. The past five years have been hell. I look at the dishevelled, unhappy man seated next to me, and I know we are on a new journey, one I hadn’t anticipated nor prepared for. I buckle my seatbelt and prepare for blast-off.

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