At the New Year, there is an assumption that we wipe the slate clean and leave the previous year's mistakes and troubles behind. If only it were true; and yet, this version of optimism might just be what makes the prospect of 365 days both encouraging and a surprise yet to unravel. We break down our lives into less daunting, measurable chunks so we have a reference point for progress and a finish line when things aren't turning out as we hoped.Does anyone's life change between midnight on New Year's Eve and when they get out of bed on New Year's Day? I doubt it. Does it change measurably in the following days, or weeks, or by the end of the month? I doubt that, too. We make resolutions and set goals at the New Year, only to find that 365 days is one big hill to crest.
The fact is, Bill and his associates at AA had it right--one day at a time. Every morning is a new chance to change or to maintain a change. Instead of being overwhelmed by the length of a year, one day is a much more tangible length of time.
I had to learn this lesson when my brain spun out of control four years ago. When I was told that medication would take a minimum of six months to be properly does and for the effects to be noticeable, I sobbed for hours. I couldn't stand the thought of feeling the way I felt for even a few weeks let alone for months. What the doctor didn't tell me was that in that time, I was going to get much worse before I got better. He knew it, but he just didn't clue me in.
Six months turned out to be a conservative estimate. It took me about 18 months to stabilize and it was a gut-wrenching, soul-crushing journey. Every day, I got out of bed even though I didn't see the point. My emotional state was fragile--brittle and just this side of being a completed suicide. Everything hurt and nothing seemed worth the effort. My hypomania had long since left me, even though I tried to summon it again and again.
When my life started to come back together, it reminded me of spilled mercury; you drop it and it separates into dozens of tiny pieces. Then you take one blob and set it near the others. Little by little, the tiny balls of mercury find their way back to being one integrated piece of matter. That's how recovery from a major bipolar breakdown feels. It just took a very long time for those little pieces of me to come back home and reintegrate so I could return to a functioning life.
Eighteen months nearly killed me, especially when I was already dismayed by the prospect of six. I took it one day at a time and that's what kept me alive. If I had known at the outset what my life was going to be like for a year and a half, I never would have made the trip. I am sure I would have ended my life within a week of my diagnosis.
I have not made any resolutions for 2009. Instead, I have made a list of things I need to remain hopeful for and things I wish to see before the year is over. They include:
- My moods and other brain glitches will stabilize even more than they have already.
- I hope that there is a miraculous cure for bipolar disorder and it is safe.
- I hope to see an end to my shingles post-herpetic neuralgia and my pelvic floor muscle spasms.
- I want to see major strides in humanity and the ability of people to stop hurting each other.
- I want to lose a lot of weight.
- I hope that suicidal ideation will stop being a part of every single day of my life.
- I hope that I will find the focus and discipline to organize my life, from closets to finances.
- I hope to have the strength and self-esteem to leave the nonprofit entirely and to hand it over to some other driven person who has no personal life.
- I make a wish every day that I can stop taking medications. All of them. Forever. While still being well.
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