My safe place.

Today, I am feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for my husband.

I read an article (excellent and highly-recommended) about a man caring for his wife through the throes of psychosis. For this couple, mental illness didn't hit until they were already married, but he has stood by his wife in the terrible and complicated ways that her condition mandated. Her illness has changed her, yet he does not simply mourn the loss of parts of her personality, he seeks to treasure and nurture the woman his wife is becoming through her struggles. He is the one who made the choice to check her into a psych ward--twice. He is the one making her take her pills. He is the one forcing her to sleep. He is the one loving her through it as best as he can manage.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I am fully aware that my situation and that of the young woman in the article are very different. Psychotic depression and OCD manifest is extremely different ways and present a myriad of different struggles. I have not entertained suicidal ideations,  nor have I been checked into a psychiatric unit. In fact, I still have not actually seen a psychiatrist (my psychologist and primary care MD work together when medication is needed).
Yet, I cannot help but see glimpses of our marriage in their story.

Dan and I met in college, fell in love, dealt with cancer, dealt with nursing school, got married, dealt with loans/bills/grown-up life, and planned for the future throughout. He knew I had a history of mental illness, but I imagine he didn't expect it to become such a large part of our lives. Then, I began working as an RN and the anxiety grew out-of-control. He encouraged me to see a counselor, and then, when the talk-therapy stopped working, he supported me in trying medication.

You see, I have been blessed with a large support network of family and friends and church communities. I appreciate each person who has come alongside me in the struggle. I must, however, give credit where credit is due: to my husband.

Dan has heard the frantic fears that border on insanity. He has talked me down from countless panic attacks. He has physically pulled me away from my compulsions (washing my hands, checking things, calling work to check on my charting, etc.). He has logically unfurled my crazed notions of reality. He has made me take my medications and assured me that I have not already taken them. He has forced me to eat when my fears about listeria and food-poisoning have made me make poor choices. He has dealt with my anger when his true view of reality clashes with my distorted one. He has defended my needs to my family members without regard to the irritation it may cause them. Dan has loved me in very concrete and frustrating ways through the last few years of my struggle with OCD.

I pray that my ability to cope with my mental illness will improve with time and that this current struggle with OCD will again dissipate after I deliver our little girl. I never want Dan to have to choose to have me committed to protect my well-being or that of our family. However, I have utmost faith and trust in his love for me--to the point that I know I am safe with him. His love is my safe place in the midst of mental illness. Aside from my salvation, there is no greater gift that God has given to me than that of my husband's love and commitment.

This is not meant to be embarrass Dan or super-inflate his ego. This is simply meant to praise a humble and kind husband for the care and devotion he has shown me in my darkest moments.
He will probably rather I baked him a cake than cry my way through writing this...

All I can say is this: thank you, Dan, for loving me so well.