She looked out the window, striving to hold everything together, with joy just out of reach. A superhero without the courage. A sacrifice without the visible scars. I dread losing touch with what bravery feels like—what my life is meant to embody. As I weave through moments of happiness and trace back to the start, I struggle to discern where I end and where the better version of me begins.
Restless thoughts drain my energy and hinder my cautious hope. I’ve worn this mask for so long that I often dislike who I’ve become. Yet, I find it difficult to envision being anyone else. Anxiety has always been my solace amid the turmoil—an imaginary companion donning a cape and wielding a sword, ready to both rescue and ruin me. The tension simmering within me threatens to unleash chaos at any moment. Still, anxiety feels like a familiar resting place. The fight or flight response drives me to achieve more than most, albeit at a significant cost.
But anxiety is manageable. It’s what follows that continues to leave me disoriented.
Once, while driving to run errands, I imagined what it might be like to veer off the road to escape the pain. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as my mind jumped from one dark thought to the next. I was deep into year three of postpartum depression and hadn’t felt like myself for what seemed like an eternity. I took medication, explored every yoga position, and spent $6,000 on mattresses, hoping sleep would bring relief—but relief never came.
Many nights, I would hear my family enjoying themselves downstairs, and I became convinced they would be better off without me. Just give them time, and they would forget about the woman who never felt enough. The thoughts of pills, running away, and dreaming of a fresh start haunted me. Panic attacks would strike, leading me to believe the world was unraveling at the seams. No matter my efforts at work, at home, or socially, nothing ever seemed to meet the impossible standards I set for myself. Little things would set me off—a song on the radio, sleepless nights, too many demands.
I recall nights filled with shouting at my partner, Mike. How could he love someone like me? I distrusted myself completely. Someone should take me to the hospital; I felt like I was genuinely losing my grip. But morning always arrived, and the demons quieted enough for me to make it to work, to microwave frozen pancakes for my kids, to brush my teeth and hastily throw on clothes that hid the twenty pounds gained from children, emotional eating, and antidepressants.
After trying fifteen different medications, my psychiatrist reassessed my condition and diagnosed me with bipolar 2—everything associated with manic depression but without the psychosis. I’ll never forget the gut punch of hearing those words. How could I be as unwell as my grandmother? How could I be so broken? They suggested Lithium, but I was unwilling to accept that. Why not just lock me away, too?
“You might gain weight and experience severe side effects,” he cautioned. “But at least you’ll be alive.”
To me, a life filled with Lithium isn’t worth living. I refuse to become a mere shell of myself just to survive. Life quality must mean something, even if my current existence feels like it’s past its expiration date. That was my choice. Others may choose differently regarding Lithium or medication, and that’s perfectly valid.
I pushed myself to start exercising and eat better, hoping to manage this new diagnosis independently. The weight from Latuda and Effexor sent me spiraling into anxiety daily. How could I bear an additional twenty pounds?
Some days are bearable. You might not notice because I am relatively high-functioning. But therein lies the issue—no one takes my struggles seriously because they can’t see the internal battles I face each day. Conversely, I fear that sharing my bipolar diagnosis will prompt others to take it too seriously.
The journey with bipolar 2 has been long, yet this is the first time I’ve publicly acknowledged it. I’m tired of feeling ashamed of something beyond my control. Anxiety and depression feel familiar because so many have bravely shared their stories. Bipolar, however, seems like a taboo word, but I’m done remaining silent. It’s an integral part of who I am as a person, a mother, a partner, and a friend. If you experience the intense highs and heartbreaking lows, I hope you find the help you need and your own (even if battle-worn) sword and dented armor.
We are mothers, unique women brought together by the journey of motherhood. We embrace our challenges proudly. Yet, we are more than just mothers; we are partners, daughters, sisters, friends, and we crave spaces to discuss topics beyond the kids. Explore our artificial insemination kit to find more insights into family-building. For those navigating this journey, check out BabyMaker’s at-home insemination kit as a reliable resource. For comprehensive information on pregnancy and home insemination, visit Mayo Clinic’s IVF page.
In summary, the battle with bipolar 2 can feel isolating and overwhelming, but acknowledging it is the first step toward healing. Sharing our stories can foster understanding and connection, reminding us that we are not alone in our struggles.
Keyphrase: bipolar 2
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