How to Be Overwhelmed by Happiness When You’re Bipolar

I’m in overwhelm.

When I write those words, they’re usually followed by a lengthy diatribe on depression. Not today. Today I’m overwhelmed by happiness.

It’s a beautiful fall morning in Los Angeles, and a neighbor’s cat is gliding across my fence, a minor miracle of grace and balance. I feel like a minor miracle of grace and balance, too, and for a moment, I join in harmony with the feline spirit and believe I could waltz across a tightrope.

And, of course, that has me worried.

Bipolar disorder is a great mimicker of moods—I know all too well that what feels like joy might actually be incipient mania. When I want to fling open my arms to the universe and sing and dance for sheer delight, perhaps I should really be popping a pill and checking in with my psychiatrist.

When I let a black cat cross my path and don’t once think how it reflects on my luck, perhaps I’ve let my guard down too far, and it’s time to fortify my mind against a cruel, cruel world. Perhaps.

Or maybe, just maybe, this is happiness pure and simple, and I get to feel it like everyone else, without a care in the world or a thought of what it might escalate into…It’s a predicament. I want to soar while still keeping both feet on the ground. Part of me really resents having to ask if I’m okay, just because my smile is brighter than usual and easier to summon. But I’ve lived long enough with mental illness to know that caution is always warranted and will serve me best in the end.

So here’s what I do when my mood is suspect: I test it for irrationality, like the good lapsed lawyer I am. Why should I be so happy, I ask myself. What is going on in my life that would justify this tremendous gift? If there are objective, provable grounds—a sound basis for bliss—then I allow myself to relax a bit.

I’m wary, but I’m willing to believe that I can relax today because yesterday I was spoiled rotten. I was pampered and indulged by culture and creature comforts, to the point where I think I have a happiness hangover. A friend took me out to a museum as an early birthday present, followed by a sumptuous four-course dinner at a fancy French bistro. When I close my eyes, I can still see the vibrant, shimmering art and taste the delicious breast of duck stuffed with foie gras. I was, quite simply, overwhelmed by the attention, beauty, and marvelous feeling that life is actually here to enjoy.

But the experience went far more profound than a mere surface luxury. It made me remember how I used to feel with my father when he was alive—the care he would take to make sure I was experiencing as many of the finer things as he could provide. That includes the great education he gave me, which lets me know what a celery root remoulade is or the difference between a Manet and a Monet. He made me feel safe and protected, and mental illness robs me of that feeling far too much of the time. I miss it.

All too often, when you have bipolar disorder, you’re preoccupied with just surviving—riding out the mood swings, tamping down the intensity of your emotions. You lose sight of the fact that you’re entitled to a wonderful life, not merely a life without rampant dysfunction. Your doctors consider it a major victory if you’re not in the hospital or suicidal or overtly symptomatic. Quality of life becomes an afterthought, not a primary goal. This isn’t right, nor do I think it’s necessary.

Overwhelmed. I deserve it, every once in a while, just like everyone else. And for today, at least, I’ve met my happiness test, and I think my joy is appropriate. Wildly appropriate, under the circumstances. I’ll worry about it tomorrow.