Maybe There IS a Santa Claus

Last Friday, the most amazing thing happened. I really never thought this day would come. It blew me completely away.

My husband went to an appointment with a psychiatrist.

I have maintained for a long time that he has some issues, and should probably work on them. He has never been willing to go. He has come up with virtually every excuse in the book: he's worried they might put him on drugs and then he might not be creative/able to have sex/interesting enough/etc.; he doesn't feel like he can talk to a professional about suicide, because they'll call the police on him; he doesn't think there is anything a therapist can do for him; people who go to therapy are whining crying babies; and on, and on, and on. We also have issues as a couple, and I've never been able to get him to go to marriage counseling with me.

But, apparently something changed somewhere along the line. Perhaps it's the matter-of-fact-ness that I now use to describe the dying of our marriage. Perhaps it's the impending possibility of a move out of Austin, and me requiring a change. Perhaps it's how several of his coworkers have given him referrals to their therapists. Perhaps it's that his sister was diagnosed as bipolar not once, but by two different doctors in 2006. Who knows, but I'll take the result, regardless.

He won't talk about his visit, but I'm also not pressing him for details. I'm just happy that he's officially talking to someone who is impartial and who he can feel is unequivocally on his side. I know it's not the be-all, end-all of solutions, but I have trouble not getting giddy that things are going in a more correct direction.