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. Only deep analysis of my bipolar condition.
We meet at the same time in the same place--alone together again.
Yes, we have "clandestine" meetings. I see Jeff, my psychiatrist, four times a year, in his office. We meet together, all alone, as lovers would. I see Suzanne once every three weeks. We always leave our clothes on.
I couldn't have had my child without them.
This sounds funny, but I needed letters from both of them to adopt my child. They vouched for my stability and the remission of my bipolar illness. When we got my son, they were the first two to receive cigars.
I seek guidance from them.
Like I would from lovers, I seek direction from my health care workers. They help me make important choices in my life, from where I chose to live to whether or not to have another child. These two guide me, as lovers would.
I tell them every little thing.
As I would with lovers, I share my life with them. We’re intimate in every way except ... They are my confidants.
They watch over me.
Ultimately, as lovers would, these two take care of me. Even though they receive my money as payment for their services, I love them like family members.
I have another man AND another woman. How do I juggle these "affairs"?
No, it’s not like that. They make my life easier, happier and healthier.
And the good thing is they coexist peacefully with my husband. My husband even approves of these people. He knows they make our family run smoothly.
I have another man and another woman.
And my husband doesn’t want to divorce me.
Can you say that?