Managing my plate full of stress

I’ve had a lot on my plate lately. Like, I have more on my plate right now than an over-eater at Golden Coral.

I decided, just for the heck of it, to rate my stressful life events on the Stressful Life Events ListSocial Adjustment Rating Scale. Anything more than 300 means you are under high stress. I scored 334, which is a pretty conservative rating of my stress. In that past 15 months I have given birth, filed for divorce, moved, switched careers, moved to another state, and had a 75 percent reduction in my household income.

So that stuff happened. I understand that life happens. But when you have bipolar disorder life happens so fucking hard. Seriously. I often have to remind myself that this illness is real, and valid, and hard. So hard.

When I was hospitalized in 2005 I made friends with another woman who had bipolar type 1. I had just graduated from college. She had just bought her first home. Big events trigger episodes, both mania and depression.

I remember thinking when I left the hospital that I never wanted to have another big life event again. I couldn’t imagine myself with a husband and child and mortgage. I just wanted to play it safe.

But there’s nothing safe about life. It’s full of risks. Clearly I’ve taken my fair share. Some of the risks had a great return. Others taught me lessons that I take with me to this day.

I used to think that taking risks would land me back in the psych ward. You can’t go through stressful life events without becoming symptomatic. Over the past 12 months I’ve experienced two significant bouts of hypomania. One was uncomfortably close to mania. In both instances depression symptoms shortly followed after I scaled back on my antidepressant.

These ups and downs are part of being bipolar. It’s easy shrug them off as just “these ups and downs.” But truthfully, I felt so overwhelmed and worthless tonight that I had to phone a friend to remind myself that me living is a good thing.

It’s hard to understand how someone who has so much going for her can feel so worthless. It’s hard for me to understand, even as I experience it. How can I go from a flood of creative thoughts, from seeing everything as beautiful to feeling like my very existence is nothing more than burden on the unfortunate souls who happen to be my family? How do I go from feeling so wonderful to feeling so absolutely despicable? How do I go from loving myself to loathing myself faster that Kim Kardashian can change her hair back to brunette?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. I probably never will. What I do know, is that I’m not in the hospital. My friend reminded that things suck, but I don’t. And my feelings, valid as they are, will pass. I ended the conversation and was able to read my daughter her bedtime stories, tuck her in, say her prayers, and see the beauty in her smile.

I’m not in the hospital. I have managed to get through some of my most trying times without any full-blown episodes. I’ve been symptomatic, for sure, but I haven’t had any full-blown episodes. That’s not just something. That’s everything.

Bit by bit, my plate’s gonna clear. These stresses will pass. And quite frankly as long as they are on a plate and not a hospital tray I’m going to call it a success.