Staring out of the window, I often feel like I’m tethering the world together, with joy always just out of reach. A superhero without the courage, a martyr without the battle scars. I fear losing sight of what true bravery feels like—what my life is meant to be. As I fluctuate between moments of happiness and despair, I struggle to differentiate where I end and my better self begins.
Nervous thoughts sap my energy and hinder my cautious optimism. After wearing this mask for so long, I sometimes dislike who I’ve become, yet I find myself unsure of how to change. Anxiety has been my comfort in the storm—a fictional companion with a cape and sword, both my savior and my destroyer. The tension lies deep within me, ready to unleash chaos at any moment. However, anxiety has become a familiar resting place. The fight-or-flight response propels me to achieve more than most, but it comes with a heavy price.
Yet, it’s what follows the anxiety that leaves me feeling disoriented. One day, while running errands, I imagined what it would be like to veer off the road, just to make the pain stop. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, my mind racing through dark thoughts. Three years into postpartum depression, I hadn’t felt like myself for what felt like an eternity. I tried medication, yoga, and even spent $6,000 on sleep solutions, but relief never arrived.
Many nights, I would listen to my family enjoying themselves downstairs, convinced they would be better off without me. Just give them time, and they would forget about the woman who never felt adequate. I contemplated pills, fantasized about running away, and dreamed of a fresh start. Panic attacks would seize me, making the world feel like it was unraveling at the seams. No matter my efforts at work, home, or with friends, nothing seemed good enough for the impossible expectations I set for myself. The wrong song on the radio or a few sleepless nights could trigger me into a spiral.
I recall yelling at my husband, Matt, in frustration. “How could you ever love me?” I would question. I didn’t trust myself. I felt like I needed to be hospitalized—convinced I was losing my sanity. But mornings always came, and somehow, I managed to get through the day. I would microwave frozen pancakes for my kids, brush my teeth, and throw on clothes that could conceal the weight I gained from emotional eating and antidepressants.
After trying numerous medication combinations, my psychiatrist reevaluated me and diagnosed me with bipolar 2 disorder—a form of manic depression without the psychosis. I remember the gut-wrenching moment I heard the words. Could I truly be as unwell as my grandmother? How could I be so broken? They suggested Lithium, but I pushed back. “Why not just lock me away?” I exclaimed.
“You may gain weight and face harsh side effects,” he warned, “but at least you’ll be alive.” To me, a life on Lithium didn’t seem worth living. 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 long expired.
That was my decision. Others might choose differently regarding medication, and that’s entirely valid. I began to exercise and eat better, trying to see if I could manage this new diagnosis alone. The weight I gained from medications like Latuda and Effexor sent me spiraling into anxiety. How could I cope with 20 more pounds?
Some days are bearable, and I often appear high-functioning, but that’s the issue—people don’t take my struggles seriously because they can’t see the internal war I fight daily. Yet, I’m also terrified that if I reveal my bipolar diagnosis, they’ll treat me too seriously.
The path to accepting my bipolar 2 diagnosis has been long and winding, but this is the first time I’ve openly shared my truth. I’m exhausted from feeling ashamed of something beyond my control. Anxiety and depression feel familiar because so many have bravely shared their stories. However, bipolar carries a stigma, and I’m tired of staying silent. It’s a part of who I am as a mother, wife, and friend. If you experience the euphoric highs and devastating lows, I hope you find the support you need, along with your own metaphorical sword and dented armor.
We are mothers, partners, friends, and women who deserve to discuss more than just parenting. For more insights and community support, explore our other blog posts, including one on home insemination kits. If you’re interested in pregnancy support, check out this excellent resource on intrauterine insemination. Don’t forget to explore the Cryobaby home insemination kit for more options.
In summary, acknowledging my bipolar 2 diagnosis has been transformative. Sharing my journey lifts the weight of shame and connects me with others who face similar battles. Acceptance is the first step toward healing.
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