My husband knew I was depressive when we met, but neither of us knew at the time that I was schizoaffective. Now, looking back at it, I can't imagine that he didn't cotton on fairly quickly that there was more wrong with me than depression. After all, I went round the house with a portable radio tuned between stations, listening to spikes in the white noise in order to track down bugs. I did all sorts of silly things like that... my husband was a sensible man, he had to know that I was ill.

He kept me safe, and steady. When I thought there was a camera in the ceiling looking down on our bed, he told me to put a bit of masking tape over it, when I thought the house was full of bugs he told me he'd hire a friend of his, an electrician, to come and sort it out. In retrospect, that might be seen as enabling, but he was simply trying to make sure I felt safe, and could continue to function despite my delusions. I wish he could have known me now that I'm "stable" again.

Never mind, the point is, he was physically ill, I was mentally ill... we both looked after each other. The last thing he ever said to me, just before he died was, "to have and to hold." I'll always remember the love he felt for me, and I for him, and am glad that he believed our wedding vows mattered, no matter what.