I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in early 2016 and it terrified me. It was the least unexpected diagnosis I’ve ever received, but that didn’t make it any easier. Bipolar II Disorder, the words hung over me like a label I would never be able to shake.
Bipolar disorder was something that happened to other people, not to me. Yet, here I was. Sitting in a psychiatrist’s office with an explanation for what was going on in my head. It was an answer that came with supports, including medication, to help me feel better. That should have meant the world to me, right? On one level it did, but there was also this voice in the back of my mind telling me not to talk about.
I was scared. Scared and questioning everything. I didn’t want to be bipolar. Does anyone? But I am not my illness. I have bipolar disorder, but I am not bipolar. This approach doesn’t work for everyone, but in the early days it enabled me to put one foot in front of the other. This distinction, although it looks semantic to some, allowed me to let go of my internalised stigma.