I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder earlier this year, and it terrifies me. It was the least unexpected diagnosis I’ve ever received, but that doesn’t make it easy.

The thing that scares me the most, the thing that has me holding my breath, the thing that is stopping me really moving forward is stigma, both internal and external. I have been open about having depression and anxiety. I have been vocal in discussing how we, as a society, need to end the stigma surrounding mental health issues. No one should fear how other people view them, simply because they are ill.

Yet here I am.

I am doing all the right things; medication, therapy and self-care. My mood is stabilising, the fog is lifting and my concentration is returning. It’s draining, but I am doing everything I can to give myself the best chance.

Yet there is this voice telling me not to talk about. Telling family is one thing, but don’t talk about it the way you did when it was just depression and anxiety. Just. As if depression and anxiety aren’t serious illnesses. As if depression and anxiety are easy. As if depression and anxiety are separate from other mental illnesses.

I know better than this. I’ve spoken better than this. Ending the stigma surrounding mental health has always been important to me. I thought I got it, I really did.

Yet here I am.

Here I am, scared people will judge me. Here I am, judging myself. Here I am, drawing distinctions that I would question anyone else for drawing.

I’m still processing, I know that. It’ll take time and hard work. Stigma will not win, I won’t let it. I am disappointed it has affected me this way. I thought I’d left all that behind. I thought I had done the work. I thought, I thought, I thought. Stigma is insidious and clearly has other ideas for me.

Acknowledging it is the first step to letting it go. I can start to breath properly. I can fully let other people help.

I know I’m not alone.

I will let people in, but I’m not quite there yet.