Some Days Are Harder Than Others

I tell myself I don’t need to call. I try sitting, going for a walk, eating crackers and peanut butter. I tell myself, “If I can hold on for a few hours, everything will be okay.” It doesn’t work, though, and as a last resort, I call my husband, Jean-Claude, at work.

“I’m not okay,” I tell him.

“Did you take a half of a pill?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s not helping. I can’t do it.”

“I’ll cancel my meeting and come home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he says and hangs up.

The medication eventually puts me to sleep. When I wake up, my husband is in the kitchen making french fries. He knows I feel guilty for disrupting him at work, so he makes one of my favorite foods to reassure me he isn’t mad. He always makes it clear that he doesn’t blame me for having schizophrenia or an anxiety disorder.