My wife and I occasionally take time off together. We plan it carefully, trying to overlap our leave while remaining mindful of our colleagues — especially those with children, who often seem to need the break more than most.
One of the things I look forward to most is our picnic.
My wife, a former chef, knows exactly what we’ll enjoy. And trust me — she prepares a feast. My only contribution is making sure the cooler is stocked with ice-cold beer.
We settle on the lush lawn beneath the walnut tree. The picnic blanket welcomes us as though it’s been waiting. Our dog sniffs the air, inching closer with hopeful eyes, eventually winning my wife over. Squirrels race down the tree upside down, frozen mid-pause by the sight of food. Pigeons edge nearer, rehearsing their patience. Even the hadidas — shy and suspicious — eventually forget we’re there and forage peacefully nearby.
The food hushes our voices. Soon, the only sounds are chewing, wind, and birdsong.
When we’ve eaten ourselves full, we lie back and look up at the sky, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Swallows swoop and dive overhead, capitalising on nature’s abundance. I pluck a long blade of grass, chew on the stem, and pretend — just for a moment — that I’m on the set of some epic film. My wife turns her head, smiles, and takes my hand.
Most of our wealthier neighbours are away, and we’re house-sitting. A small sacrifice with huge rewards: peace and quiet. Neither of us suffers from FOMO. I honestly believe we aren’t missing a thing. Wherever rich people go, there always seems to be chaos — just a different kind each time.
This is our time to connect. No interruptions. No buzzing phones. No screens. No music. No artificial noise at all. Just presence.
And most importantly, I feel safe.
You see, those of us with inherited mental health challenges don’t come with warning labels: HANDLE WITH CARE, DAMAGED GOODS, or THIS SIDE UP. Our partners discover these things slowly, often through what they generously call “episodes.”
Imagine being on a first date. You reach across the table, hold their hands, and blurt out, “Just so you know, I’m bipolar and prone to hypomanic episodes.” Your date startles, tries to hide it, and gently withdraws their hands. You can feel what’s coming. Rejection arrives. And just like that, the label — THIS SIDE UP — becomes painfully relevant.
Vulnerability can feel like standing naked in a crowded marketplace, exposed to the judgement of strangers. Explaining the hidden geography of my mind — its peaks and valleys — is a lifelong task. Yet, in moments like these, under the walnut tree, the weight feels lighter.
My wife has become an expert cartographer of my inner world. She navigates the storms with patience and quiet love. This picnic — this simple ritual — acts as a balm. A temporary shield against unpredictability. Here, the fear of judgement fades, replaced by acceptance.
I am the youngest in my entire family, on both sides. I inherited the consequences of choices I never made and carry more of the fallout than feels fair. But it isn’t myself I feel sorry for — it’s the person who ends up with me.
My partner. My wife. My love.
She’s witnessed arguments, estrangements, and fractures with my mother, my brother, and other relatives. Being the youngest is a fight to survive — to earn your place. You either run, leaving everyone behind, or risk losing the one person who stood by you through job losses, mental health struggles, rejection letters, failed books, and disastrous business ventures.
I leave a trail of wreckage behind me. And we both know — sooner or later — there will be more.
During our picnics, I always feel her hand in mine. She understands the unspoken. The truth hangs gently between us — the weight of a man shaped by a troubled family, visible in both mind and body.
This picnic is our quiet acknowledgement of it all.
Here, the masks fall away. The pretences dissolve. The labels lose their power.
DAMAGED GOODS.
HANDLE WITH CARE.
THIS SIDE UP.
Under the walnut tree, none of them apply.