As I glance out the window, I feel the weight of the world pressing down, with contentment just out of reach. I often find myself in the role of a superhero, lacking the courage to truly fight my battles. The fear of forgetting what true bravery feels like looms over me, blurring the lines between who I am and who I strive to be.
The cycle of fluctuating emotions leaves me questioning where my true self ends and the better version of me begins. Persistent anxious thoughts drain my energy, overshadowing any glimmer of hope I may hold on to. I’ve been trapped in my own skin for so long that I sometimes struggle to recognize the person I’ve become, even as I find it difficult to envision a different existence.
Anxiety has been my constant companion throughout this chaos—an imaginary ally clad in a cape, both my savior and my adversary. The tension lies deep within, waiting to unleash a torrent of turmoil at any moment. Though anxiety has helped propel me forward, it comes at a high price.
Yet, it’s the moments that follow that truly leave me feeling unmoored. I recall a day spent driving, when the thought of veering off the road crossed my mind as a way to escape the relentless pain. My grip tightened around the steering wheel as I weighed my options. Three years into postpartum depression, I felt more like a ghost than a person, and the weight of my struggles was suffocating. I tried medication, yoga, and even splurged on countless mattresses, hoping that sleep would bring relief, but solace remained elusive.
Nights often found me listening to my family laugh and play downstairs, convinced they would be better off without me. The thought of them moving on without the woman who never felt adequate was crushing. Panic attacks became a regular occurrence, and I was convinced the world was unraveling at the seams. Despite my efforts at work, home, and in my relationships, nothing ever seemed to meet the expectations I had set for myself. Triggers lurked around every corner—an unexpected song on the radio or a few sleepless nights could send me spiraling.
I remember shouting at my partner, Max, in frustration. How could he possibly love someone so lost? I doubted my own sanity and felt I might need to seek hospitalization. Yet, morning would always arrive, allowing me to push through another day—heat up frozen pancakes for my kids, brush my teeth, and don clothes that concealed the extra weight brought on by my struggles with food and medication.
After numerous medication trials, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar II disorder—an acknowledgment of my manic depression without the psychotic features. The revelation hit me like a punch to the gut. How could I share a diagnosis with my grandmother? How could I be so broken? When Lithium was suggested, I refused, feeling as if it would diminish my very essence.
“You might gain weight and experience severe side effects,” he warned, “but at least you’ll be alive.” A life filled with Lithium wasn’t one I was willing to accept. I believed quality of life was paramount, even if my current existence felt like it was nearing its expiration.
I made the choice to focus on exercise and nutrition, attempting to manage this new diagnosis independently. However, the weight gain from medications like Latuda and Effexor sent me into daily spirals of anxiety. How could I bear to add more pounds to my burden?
Some days were bearable, and to the outside world, I appeared to function well. Yet therein lay the issue—no one could see the internal war I waged daily. I feared they would underestimate my struggles or, conversely, take them too seriously if I revealed my bipolar diagnosis.
The path to accepting my bipolar II diagnosis has been long and arduous, but this marks my first public acknowledgment. I’m weary of feeling ashamed for something beyond my control. While anxiety and depression have gained visibility through shared narratives, bipolar disorder remains stigmatized. Yet, it is part of my identity—as a person, a mother, a partner, and a friend. If you experience similar highs and lows, I hope you find the support you need and discover your own means to navigate this journey, even if it feels dull at times.
As a community of mothers, we are united, and it’s essential to have spaces beyond parenting to share our stories. For further insights, visit our other blog posts, such as this one on the importance of support. If you’re interested in the topic of home insemination, check out this guide for comprehensive information. For excellent resources on pregnancy, visit this link.
In summary, my journey with bipolar II has been filled with challenges and revelations. Accepting this part of myself is a crucial step toward healing. We must continue to advocate for understanding and support in our communities.