"Look at the purple dog" I say.

"Purple? That dog is brown" says my wife.

"Brown? Are you crazy? That dog is purple" I say.

"I think I know a brown dog when I see it" she says.

"I said the dog is purple, the dog is purple!" I say, my voice rising, rage taking over.

"Well, I guess it does look violet when the sun hits it..." she says, making peace, trying hard to understand and accept the twisted thinking.

Conversations like these take place regularly in our house. Both myself and my 22 year old son suffer from Bipolar Disorder. And my wife, my lifetime love, companion, and the rock in my life, makes sense of it all. She calls my son a "unicorn in a home of thoroughbreds" and tells me I'm like living with a purple dog.

It all makes sense to me.