So last night my partner gets home from her Kripalu workshop on how to breathe. Don’t ask. She has also become this major inner investigator. She’s gone to a psychic (OMG!) and learned how to do Reiki. Not to mention the Internal Family Systems co-counseling thing, which is, of course, very cutting edge.
But, life at our house: I’m up coughing my head off in the middle of the night. And she holds me and tries to soothe me back to sleep.
So I say, “I’ve decided that you have Munchausen by Proxy and also that you are very competitive.”
She says, “I’m feeling really diagnosed right now.”
I say, “That’s because I’m diagnosing you. But to make you feel better, I’ll diagnosis myself. I am a saint.”
There’s a very very very very pregnant pause.
Then I say, “Who just happens to be chock full of homicidal rage.”
Then we lie there laughing.
Which is to say, for last night at least, our relationship was completely back to normal.