Staring at someone’s back in bed, waiting for their breathing to become regular so you know they are finally asleep, is a unique kind of torment that I live with these days. But I guess most spouses of bipolar patients are familiar with this routine.
The anatomy of a quiet morning
And then, every morning I wake up and the first thing I do is listen. Is he still asleep? Has he been tossing and turning? Will today be a good day? I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, taking stock of the silence. 
Outside my bedroom, the household machinery is whirring to life, powered by my mother-in-law and the maids. Still curled up in bed beside my sleeping husband, I am silently praying that he has completed at least 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.
It has become a habit, this quiet assessment of the man sleeping beside me. I wonder when I started doing it and whether I will ever stop. Because, the minute his sleep gets choppy and light, it’s time to speak to his doctor.
The currency of the mundane
Most of our life is hardly anything to write about. A lot of time after we wake up is spent in bed rustling through the morning paper and sipping tea. Eventually, we make a leisurely transition into something resembling a workday. For me, it’s my content strategy course, my self-made bridge back into the real job market next year. For him, it’s checking up on his team, speaking to clients, approving creatives and making calls.
Our teenage son is off to school. He won’t be back before 4pm in the evening. And so I have the luxury to chart out the rest of my day as I please. 
After a number of manic and depressive phases over a decade and a half, an ordinary and uneventful morning feels like the ultimate luxury, something I hold unreasonably dear.
The constant anxiety of caregiving
Living with someone who has bipolar disorder makes you attentive to things you once took for granted. Sleep, for instance. A few nights of poor sleep can make my pulse quicken with anxiety.
An unusually cheerful mood can make me happy for him, followed almost immediately by a nervous knot in my chest: Is this his normal disposition or is he gradually inching towards a high?
I miss living for myself. I miss the time when I wasn’t obsessing about someone else’s moods, meds or the next thing that might go wrong. It’s deeply isolating. On most days I feel like I am standing on the edge of a cliff, my heart hammering in my chest.
This is a feeling you never quite learn how to deal with. People who live stable, predictable lives untouched by the curse of Bipolar Disorder can never imagine how each episode and each mood swing can mess with the caregiver’s sanity.
Shared heavy skies
Misery loves company. And the only time I felt somewhat less lonely was in the psychiatric ward of Vim Hans Hospital in Delhi when I realised that there are people around me living in various degrees of misery and still managing to live their best lives – making money, bringing up their kids well and discovering joys in the little things in life. It is humbling really.
My husband’s meds are an absolute lifesaver. If we ever had to flee a burning house, I would probably forget to grab our savings and documents, and instead make a beeline for his medicines. That is how essential this colorful medley of pills is for us. Without them, the fragile stability of our world comes crashing down.
Why the Normal Days Are Worth a Billion Dollars
But in our everyday reality, he enjoys long stretches of absolute normalcy. Years and months where he is a whole, capable man who works hard and loves us well. When the dark clouds finally clear and the sunlight of sweet resporation and grace creeps back into our lives, I can heave a sigh of relief. I know what follows will be a long stretch of quiet stability.
Those are the days I live for. A humdrum, mundane life is worth a billion dollars to me. Just the simple pleasure of waking up next to a quiet mind. To open my eyes and find a man whose internal weather is perfectly still.
People talk about “in sickness and in health” as if it’s a line etched in stone. But with us, the sickness and the health are tangled up together like old roots. I love him in the spaces between the storms, in the ordinary, slow afternoons when he is just a man completely present and wonderfully himself again.
A content writer and lifelong book nerd rewriting the rules of her 40s, because in a world that expects women to have it all figured out, the real power belongs to those of us brave enough to tell the truth.
I am an ardent admirer and fan of your writing . How wonderfully you record even the most traumatic experiences with a quiet strength and courage . There is no trace of maudlin sentimentality .. You emerge through your writings as a brave woman , ready to face the extra load of challenges Life has thrown at you .
I can’t thank you enough for always being my unwavering cheerleader. For reading everything I write and for always giving me the most heartfelt feedback. Your words make me feel seen. I feel stronger and it gives me the stregth to power through. Very very grateful pishi!