A few days ago I found myself writing the following sentence:
“I’m so sick of being sick.”
And I really, truly am.
I’m sick of hearing myself talk about how sick I feel. Because the type of sick I am isn’t the physical type. Sure, I hardly sleep. I’m always tired. My heart and blood pressure haven’t been great. But the kind of sick I truly am is all in my head.
16 years ago I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and major anxiety disorder. I figured it explained the years of anxiety, the severity of my postpartum depression.
Sometimes I used to share. Then I retracted that information because I’m ashamed. I felt exposed, judged. By myself more than others. Because no one has ever actually told me to shut the fuck up already with all the complaining. Maybe they thought it, but they’ve extended me the kindness of not saying it. Instead we all just pulled away from each other.
I think I struggle with wanting to share because I want to help and then I struggle with imposter syndrome. And then shame. So much fucking shame. The only kind, really: the one where everyone else is above me.
The past couple of years have been rough. It’s not just about losing my dad in the cognitive sense (he suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and will never be the same). It’s not the incredible responsibility of wanting to support and be supported by my family who lives in a different country. It’s not even the difficulties of parenting two teenagers all by myself. I can do all of that.
In July of 2024 I went emotionally catatonic in a way I’ve never been before. I retreated from work, from friends, from family. One day in September I woke up and realized I’ve successfully mastered the art of solitary self confinement.
The very limited energy I had was spent on my children and my parents. During that time my dad suffered a few strokes and a significant heart procedure. Again I found myself flying back and forth every few days. I had no time. No mental or emotional capacity. I berated myself for being a bad friend, a bad colleague. What happened to this incredible movie we were all supposed to make? Why did I decide to put a stop to everything? Why, why, why?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I checked in with my psychiatrist. We changed one of my medications. And things went back to being numb for a little while. Numb is good. Numb means I can try to function.
A few months ago the millions of little thoughts started to resurface. Why am I not working, why do I have zero energy and desire to see anyone but my children, why am I living so aimlessly? I have EVERYTHING that anyone would want.
I went on a trip to Mecca hoping I can feel that overwhelming sense of peace people talk about. I found myself praying five times a day. I faked feeling saint-like thinking maybe I can fake it till I make it.
And just when I felt things can start to move forward we symbolicaly lost my dad.
A year later the war broke out.
I did everything in my power to blame all these outside factors on why I always felt like shit. On why sometimes all I ever wanted to do is blow my life up.
Two days ago I woke up.
I’ve been staring off into space thinking another million little thoughts because now I have an answer.
My new psychiatrist, who I have been seeing this past month in the US, has been asking me questions I’ve never been asked before by his peers. I went to him asking, “why am I still in bed? Why don’t I want to go out and sit in the sunshine? America used to be a place I felt calm. I know I’m depressed but I’m taking showers and making sure my kids are well taken care of. Is there anything you can give me to shut my fucking brain off while simultaneously waking it up? Any new medications?”
What is wrong with me?
“Bipolar 2”
He added one tiny little medication and asked me to keep an eye out for my hypomanic stretches of time.
It took me a few hours to look up the meaning of bipolar 2.
I was always ok with being anxious or depressed. Isn’t everybody?
But bipolar? Isn’t that the one where people go from being super down to super up? I’m never super up.
As I researched and read about how bipolar 2 is mostly misdiagnosed as major depressive disorder, I felt an overwhelming sense of compassion and anger.
Compassion because I really am sick. Every single word describing this diagnosis applies to me. This is me. Someone has finally put into words the years of emotions I didn’t have the words to express. And now I know.
Anger because my old psychiatrist didn’t ask me more questions. It didn’t cross his mind to explore why I had to change antidepressants every year or two. He didn’t wonder why I couldn’t go through with plans I made or projects I started when I was having a hypomanic episode. Because I did. I made so many plans that just fell through.
Anger at everyone who ever judged me as someone who wasn’t grateful. Everyone who ever called me antisocial, full of myself, and hating this beautiful life I had been given. Even anger at everyone who will think this diagnosis is full of shit because their brains can’t ever understand.
I stop myself and say I need to give grace to others: to all the people who thought I wasn’t a good friend and an irresponsible colleague. To everyone who ever thought of me negatively.
I wish I could scream from the top of my lungs “see?! It’s not me!!! It’s my brain chemistry. I can’t help it.”
It explains so much.
All these memories that I’m ashamed of.
All these ridiculous impulses finally make sense.
I’ve been sitting on this for a couple of days.
At times I find tears streaming down my face because I finally have hope that I will begin to feel the things I am meant to be feeling. I will no longer desire to feel numb because the other option is to feel TOO MUCH. Those few days a year where I enjoy everything and everyone?
Maybe I’ll be able to have more of those.
The diagnosis isn’t a magical cure. The diagnosis is a means of giving me hope for the first time in a long, long time.
I thought of keeping this to myself. Because I know the implications of sharing something like this on the internet. Once it’s out, anyone can do whatever they want with this information.
But being scared to share it means it has power over me. It means I still feel ashamed. It means I’m gatekeeping something that can potentially help someone, anyone out there. I haven’t explained what bipolar 2 actually is because if you’ve made it this far and want to know you can go ahead and find out for yourself.
I’m not sure what comes next.
I don’t have to know right now. My days are lived one at a time. It’s about making sure my kids are safe, healthy and fine. Everything and everyone can come later.
Maybe after writing this the million little thoughts will ease up a little bit. But its also ok if they don’t. Because now I know the “why.”