There’s another man in my life. And another woman.
"Two lovers?" you say. "A man AND a woman?"
Let me explain.
I’m not unfaithful to my husband, nor am I bisexual. And no, I do not engage in menage a tois.
My other man and other woman are my psychiatrist and my psychologist.
Since 1997, I’ve been seeing a sweet guy named Jeffrey. He prescribes my medication for bipolar illness and he monitors the Depakote level in my blood.
And since 2005, I’ve been visiting an adorable woman named Suzanne. She carries on an ongoing conversation in my life on how to promote psychological health.
This man and woman are invaluable. They bear a striking resemblance to "the other man" and "the other woman."
"How?" you ask.
I can call them in the middle of the night, and they'll listen to me.
These two are emotionally available to me. If I says it’s an emergency, I can interrupt these people’s good night sleep. They care about my welfare. Granted, I’m paying them to watch over me, but they are there for me whenever I need them. (Incidentally, I don’t make a habit of bothering them at night.)
They want me to dress nicely and wear make-up at all times.
Looking nice is one of the indicators of good mental health. If you walk around with uncombed hair and no make-up and yesterday’s outfit, people might judge you to be mentally unstable. My health care professionals want me to look my best, to look pretty. But they don’t want me to look good for their benefit, only for mine.
We've shared our tears and our laughter together.
I’ve formed strong bonds with my health care workers. I not only tell them my problems; they sometimes share theirs. They seem to want me to know that everyone has problems. We commiserate together, as lovers would.
I tell secrets to them that I don't tell my husband.
I tell my health care workers secrets, as I would to lovers. My husband’s life and behavior is often dissected and hashed out by us. They often know news of my mental health before my husband does.
I can lie down when I'm with them.
Yes, my health care workers have couches. If I wish, I may recline. But, of course, there’s no hanky panky going on.