She looked out the window, striving to keep her world intact, with a flicker of happiness tantalizingly close. A hero without the courage, a victim without the visible scars. I worry that I may forget what true courage feels like—what my existence is meant to reflect. As I oscillate between joy and despair, I find myself lost in the confusion of where I end and the better version of myself begins.
Anxiety drains my energy and clouds my cautious hope. I’ve worn this skin for so long that I sometimes despise who I’ve become, yet I’m unsure how to be anyone else. Anxiety has been my constant companion—a fictional ally with a cape and a sword, poised to rescue me while simultaneously threatening my existence. The tension lies deep within, ready to unleash chaos at any given moment. Still, anxiety feels like a familiar refuge, a place where I can rest my weary head. The fight-or-flight response drives me to achieve more than most, but at a cost that is steep.
But it’s the next challenge that leaves me reeling. I remember a day when I was driving to run errands and contemplated veering off the road to escape the pain. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as my mind raced through various scenarios. It was the third year of my postpartum depression, and I hadn’t truly felt like myself in what seemed like an eternity. I tried medications, experimented with yoga, and spent thousands on mattresses, believing that better sleep would lead to better days—but relief never came.
Many nights, I would hear my family laughing downstairs, and I convinced myself they would be better off without me. In time, they would forget the woman who never felt enough. Thoughts of pills and escape haunted me, as full-blown panic attacks surged, making me feel as though the world was unraveling around me. No matter how hard I tried—at work, at home, or with friends—it never felt sufficient to meet the expectations I had fabricated in my mind. Triggers lurked everywhere, from the wrong song on the radio to sleepless nights piling up.
I recall nights filled with yelling at my partner, Alex. “How could you possibly love me?” I questioned, doubting my own sanity. “Someone should take me to the hospital—I’m losing my mind.” Yet, each morning, the demons would retreat just enough for me to pull myself together and prepare breakfast for my kids. I would hastily dress to conceal the weight that had accumulated from childbirth, emotional eating, and medications.
After enduring countless medication trials, my psychiatrist reassessed my condition and diagnosed me with bipolar 2—a form of manic depression devoid of psychosis. The news hit me like a punch in the gut. How could I be as unstable as my grandmother? How could I be this broken? They suggested Lithium, but I flatly declined. “Why not just lock me up?” I thought.
“You might gain weight and experience severe side effects, but at least you’ll be alive,” he reasoned. A life filled with Lithium didn’t seem worth living to me. I refused to become a mere shadow of myself for the sake of survival. Quality of life matters, even when my current existence feels like it’s past its expiration date.
This was my choice. Others might opt for Lithium or other medications, and that’s perfectly valid. I pushed myself to exercise and improve my diet, attempting to navigate this new diagnosis independently. The weight I gained from medications like Latuda and Effexor sent me into a daily spiral of anxiety. How could I manage another 20 pounds?
Some days are bearable. I seem high-functioning enough that people often overlook my struggle. Yet, that’s the issue—no one perceives the internal battle I face daily. Conversely, I fear that if I reveal my bipolar diagnosis, others may take it too seriously.
The journey to understanding bipolar 2 has been long, but this is the first time I’ve opened up publicly. I’m exhausted from feeling ashamed of something beyond my control. While anxiety and depression feel familiar because so many have shared their stories, bipolar is often seen as a taboo subject. I’m tired of silence. It’s part of who I am—as a person, a mother, a partner, and a friend. If you find yourself facing the highs and lows of this condition, I hope you seek the support you need and find your own metaphorical sword and armor.
We are a community of unique women united by experiences that stretch beyond motherhood. We are more than just caregivers; we are daughters, sisters, and friends who need space to discuss more than just parenting. For more insights, check out our post on home insemination kits. If you’re interested in achieving a natural makeup look, visit this guide for expert tips. Additionally, if you’re looking for more information on family building options, this resource is invaluable.
In summary, I’m on a journey to embrace my bipolar diagnosis openly, seeking understanding and acceptance while navigating the complexities of mental health.