27 years ago, I met my future husband at a party in a third story apartment on Orange street in Lewiston, Maine. I was 17, and had a perm and an embarrassed smile. He was 24, with a mustache and tattoos. As soon as he saw me walk in, he stopped talking to the dirty girl who was sitting on the coffee table listening to him, and walked up to me. I could see that he was dangerous and bad, exciting and fun. We talked and listened to the Little River Band and when my friend and I left to go to another party, he followed us. He was persistent and bold and all the things I was not. So, 24 hours later, when he tied a leftover piece of tinsel on my ring finger, I thought to my self that I would never take it off. I managed to keep it intact by mostly keeping my hand dry all the next week and surprised him with it when I came down to see him the following weekend. He asked me to marry him the weekend after that and I knew that if I stayed with him, he would take care of me always. And so it began…
I wrote this a few years ago about the night I met my husband. Our circumstances have changed through the years, he went to college while I worked as a CNA, then I went to nursing school while he worked. We had two children, bought a house and had a granddaughter. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, PTSD and ADHD about 10 years ago. Always what I thought of as a character, a rascal and sometimes a jerk, this brought a sense of relief to know that there was a reason for the way he acted, sometimes in bed for days, sometimes the life of the party. We have hung on through 26 years of marriage because we have fun together, because we love and like each other and because we balance each other out perfectly. I am the roots and he is the leaves. I am the earth and he is the sky. I am our anchor and he is our wings. I was right about thinking that he would take care of me always, he protects me physically, but I shield him mentally. Together, we are one.
