Four weeks ago, as the season exhibited her first mood fluctuation, a dip in morning temps, the vibrant ebb of chlorophyl on scattered leaves of canyon oak and sugar maple, that sense you get that change is imminent, I decided two years without lithium was long enough. No symptoms prompted my decision. No doctors or therapists. I woke up before beginning yet another semester of my undergrad, and chose to increase the salt in my diet. My skin is not on board with the decision, and I'm dealing with the acne breakouts that have always accompanied this medication. Otherwise, nothing else has changed. Not really.
The new schedule is difficult.
I'm utilizing an adult daycare facility for Mr. PNU on Tuesdays and Thursdays after he co-teaches Ethics and Values with Michael Minch. This gives me peace of mind that he's in good hands while I either write, research, study, or rest, whichever is the most pressing need. He spends his hours there reading and writing, much as he would here. The first few times I used the resource I cried, struggled through guilt, and ended up getting little done. After all, who passes off this kind of responsibility on others? That's what I asked myself at first. What kind of a wife asks other people to take care of her husband for her so she can focus on herself? It's a strange question, right? I've started giving myself more credit for what it is I pull off when I do have my husband in my care, because even then it's more than other wives and