Content note: This story includes mentions of suicidal ideation.
When I was 18, I found myself in the throes of a debilitating depressive episode. Wracked with guilt for the debt my parents were accruing to send me to an out-of-state college, I took on a hefty course load, an internship, and two part-time jobs in the hopes of graduating a year early. But I couldn’t keep up. Each night, exhausted by my schedule, I lay awake as snippets of my day replayed through my head in jarring remixes. The sleepless hours piled up, and the racing thoughts overwhelmed my mind. I began to fantasize about suicide as an escape.
At the time, I blamed my mental health on my environment, focusing on past traumas and financial stressors rather than the symptoms that were surfacing. So when I finally sought help and a psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, it was hard to accept. In my mind, if certain details of my life had been different, I wouldn’t have ended up here—bipolar II almost seemed too tidy an explanation for my suffering. I also equated the condition with harmful but common stereotypes: unstable, dangerous, volatile.
But I was desperate to feel better and willing to try any treatment. As the weeks rolled on, I struggled to stick with my prescribed medication due to a bunch of unpleasant side effects. When I had to stop taking one antidepressant, I developed terrifying brain zaps (electrical shock-like sensations) due to withdrawal. A few years in, I lost faith in my psychiatrist and ghosted her.
It wasn’t until my early 30s, during the height of the pandemic, that I had to reckon with the fact that I might actually have bipolar disorder. I moved states, away from my home of six years, to care for my grandmother after she broke her hip and back. Detached from our community, my husband and I felt isolated and lonely. I fell behind on my freelance writing projects and lost clients. Two years into this arrangement, Roe was overturned; reporting on the loss of my reproductive rights as a health journalist devastated me. Then, one after the other, my two dogs died. The nonprofit my husband worked for lost funding, forcing me to take on more work. Hours-long bouts of depression, rage, and suicidal thoughts consumed me.
What I didn’t know then is that bipolar episodes are often attached to high-stress periods. For months, I endured the worst depression of my life. I couldn’t get out of bed (after all, I didn’t have dogs to walk or feed anymore). My career, once a huge source of purpose, suddenly meant nothing. But it finally hit me that I was very not okay when I began lashing out at my husband, whom I adore. The amount of irritability I felt toward him was not appropriate or normal.
When I decided to get help again, at the age of 31, it was thanks to a writing gig. I had been reporting on bipolar disorder and could not ignore how much I related to the descriptions of hypomanic and depressive episodes. It felt embarrassing to admit it, over a decade later, but I had been running away from an explanation that fit. After an in-depth consultation with my new psychiatrist, I was prescribed mood-stabilizing and antipsychotic medications. And a few weeks later, I began to come back. On a beach trip with my family, I delighted in the simplest joys: putting on glimmery eyeshadow, ordering my mother a birthday cake, playing pickleball at sunset.
This time, I stuck with my meds and started therapy. Sometimes, I still felt the pull of suicide, a flicker that threatened to burn inside me. Bipolar disorder, as I learned, is cyclical. Symptoms can go away with treatment, and mine faded entirely over a span of months, but there’s always the risk of them coming back. I knew that if I was going to survive this, I had to build armor against the next potential depressive episode.
What came next for me was a long journey toward acceptance. (If I’m being honest, I’m still on it!) If you’re navigating a similar process with your mental health, I hope these tips can help you find peace, however shaky it might feel at first.
1. Explore what acceptance means to you, ideally with the support of a mental health professional.When I first reentered treatment, I felt like I could not be “fixed.” But it’s crucial to interrogate thoughts like this one. “We assume that acceptance is to say, I am innately broken. We fear that recognizing the broken parts of us puts us in a position of defeat,” Sheena Baker, LCSW, a North Carolina–based licensed therapist, tells SELF. “However, acceptance is to say, I recognize the condition of my mind is affecting the condition of my life, and I want to do something about it. When we can accept in this manner, we take authority over the possibility for change and a better quality of life.”
That’s why connecting with a therapist specializing in treating your condition is a solid first step. They’ll examine your feelings about your diagnosis and work with you to develop more helpful perspectives. For example, through talk therapy I gradually moved my mind away from dark beliefs like “I’m destined to die by suicide” to more hopeful outlooks like “Suicide is a risk that comes with bipolar disorder, but I have a safety plan to help protect me.”
Lauren Mizock, PhD, a clinical psychologist and author of Acceptance of Mental Illness, recommends looking for providers who are recovery-oriented, meaning they’re focused on supporting you to live well with mental illness, not just highlighting what mental illness takes away from you. It’s also a good idea to look for someone with a collaborative approach, meaning they’ll work with you to craft a treatment plan you feel good about.
Through therapy, I gradually adjusted my internal narratives. I wasn’t broken; I was living with a mental health condition. And I hadn’t given up—I had the strength to seek help. (If you’re in the early stages of seeking support, here’s a guide to finding a therapist you can afford.)
2. Get to know your diagnosis and be an active participant in your treatment.“To accept the treatments that are going to be recommended to you, you have to believe that there’s an illness. You have to know what kind of illness you have, why it’s diagnosed, and the course [the illness can take] over time if you don’t get treatment,” David Miklowitz, PhD, a professor of psychiatry at the UCLA Semel Institute and author of The Bipolar Disorder Survival Guide, tells SELF.
So dive into resources like books, research studies, podcasts, webinars, and discussion boards. When I committed to learning everything I could about my diagnosis, I experienced a cascade effect: More information helped me dispel myths and stigma. I discovered a complicated relationship between genetics, trauma, and bipolar disorder, which illuminated some of my personal risk factors. Reading bulleted lists of how bipolar II manifests helped me draw a line between myself and my symptoms, which made me realize I could manage them without internalizing them as personal defects or weaknesses. (For me, being unable to get out of bed isn’t a motivation problem—it’s a depression problem!) And investigating treatment options with my psychiatrist’s guidance helped me make informed decisions about my care, like opting for an antipsychotic with a lower risk of side effects.
To get the process going, ask your provider some clarifying questions: What does my diagnosis mean for me? What could happen if I don’t start treatment? What are the risks and benefits of treatment? What resources would you recommend so I can educate myself about the condition? Start with trustworthy sources like the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), and the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA).
This is also a good time to think about your support system. As Dr. Miklowitz points out, “An important part of the acceptance process is acknowledging that you need support from other people.” So what do your loved ones need to know about your triggers, warning signs, coping strategies, and obstacles to using them? For example, my mom and husband are aware of my red flags—including insomnia and irritability—and I’ve encouraged them to give me a nudge to see my psychiatrist if they think I might be headed for an episode.
3. Mourn what you’ve lost.“Part of accepting your diagnosis may involve grieving the loss of who you saw yourself as before that mental health problem, and reimagining who you can be in the face of this challenge,” Dr. Mizock says. In my case, periods of depression took away happy memories I could have had with friends when I was lying in bed instead. I also wondered what my career could have looked like without those stretches of darkness.
On the flip side, I also had to mourn the loss of hypomanic episodes, short periods of elation and energy that often struck me in springtime. In this state, I called all my friends to catch up, believed I could write a book in two weeks, and pitched outlets I’d never otherwise have the confidence to pitch. It was in this altered mood that I put together a big community event, met my husband, and hit some of my greatest career milestones. Now that I was taking medication, these wild highs would go away too. Without them, in this newfound stability, I felt like I’d lost the organizing principle of my life: a calendar that had been dominated by stretches of depression and brief flashes of bliss.
The mourning process isn’t simple or linear. It can take time to ride the wave of shock, denial, anger, and sadness. Give yourself permission to feel all the feelings. For me, that looked like acknowledging that there’s no way of knowing what my life would look like without past depressive episodes, realizing that it’s okay to miss the “good side” of bipolar disorder, and journaling through my mixed feelings of living with such a life-altering condition. I also had to (gradually!) point out to myself that there are so many benefits to having a stable mood (which at first seemed boring), like being able to handle a flat tire without spiraling.
The best thing I can do is move forward with what I know now. I can mend connections and manage my symptoms as well as possible. I can also see myself progressing professionally in ways I could not before because my mood was such a frequent struggle. But this perspective took time to develop and was hard-won over months in therapy. If you feel overwhelmed with grief, working with a therapist can be really helpful as you process what you’ve lost.
4. Connect with people who deeply get what you’re going through.As I began to accept my diagnosis, there were times when I felt so alone. I didn’t know anyone who had bipolar II, so I started looking for others who were trying to navigate the same thing, which led me to message boards like r/bipolar and r/bipolar2 on Reddit.
I also connected with an online peer support group for folks with bipolar disorder. When I attended my first session, I heard similar versions of my story reflected back to me: There were people there who also had complicated family histories. Others were switching up meds or enduring the same side effects from them—experiences I knew well. A few minutes in, I turned off my video because the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. On one hand, I felt like I was a member of a club I hadn’t wanted to be a part of. On the other, I felt moved and compelled to speak up too. After I shared my story, I felt the urge to return weekly. Hearing from others also confirmed that what I was living with was, indeed, bipolar II.
“Peer support groups offer a unique blend of empathy, shared experiences, and collective wisdom. This solidarity is instrumental in normalizing our feelings and experiences, reducing isolation, and fostering a sense of belonging,” Kristen Jacobsen, LCPC, a Chicago-based licensed therapist, tells SELF. “In these spaces, acceptance is often cultivated through shared narratives, reinforcing the idea that your struggles do not exist in isolation but are part of a broader human experience.”
You can find these connections in so many places: Reddit has many pages dedicated to specific mental health conditions. NAMI, the DBSA, and community health centers also provide support groups in person and online. (And if you’re looking for a more culturally competent space, consider identity-specific circles, like Therapy for Black Girls.) If joining one doesn’t go well for you, there are other ways to get that sense of confirmation. Look for personal testimonies, read memoirs, or search for interviews with public figures who share your diagnosis.
5. Define yourself beyond your diagnosis.Living with a mental health condition can be a shock to your sense of identity. For Colleen Hood, PhD, a researcher who studies the role of leisure in living well with mental illness, her interest in the topic became personal when she was diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder after a tragic loss.
“The idea of acceptance for me was really connected to an identity that wasn’t completely subsumed underneath mental illness,” she tells SELF. “Our identity is constructed by the stories we create about ourselves and our lives. For many people who acquire an illness, your whole narrative changes. When your narrative becomes illness-defined, your future looks bleak.”
Dr. Hood likens identity to petals on a flower: One of them is your mental illness, but there’s so much more to you than that. How can you expand your sense of self? What else defines you? Yes, I’m a person with bipolar II—but I’m also a loving friend, a supportive sister, a creative writer, and an avid artist.
Those last two stand out for an important reason: Throwing yourself into interests that bring you joy—like trying a new hobby or revisiting an old one—can help you feel hopeful and give you something to turn to and work toward during both high and low periods, Dr. Hood says. I’d always loved art, so I took a painting class. Progressing in it reminded me that I had a talent and I could work hard and improve. I also joined a hiking group and leveled up to more strenuous trails.
Remembering that there was more to me than bipolar disorder—and that I could build strength through the things that brought me happiness—made accepting my diagnosis much easier because it was no longer the only bright, flashing focal point in my life.
6. Share your story in some way.Disclosing your diagnosis is a decision that should, understandably, be handled with lots of care. But it’s a huge signifier in your path to acceptance, according to the experts I spoke with. Even now, I’m nervous about openly sharing my experiences with such a huge audience. Like so many others living with mental health conditions, I’m still dealing with internalized stigma.
That said, you don’t have to tell everyone in your life or post about it on social media. “Sharing” can look like confiding in a close friend, writing in a journal about your journey, or even penning a letter to your past self about how far you’ve come.
It’s taken me a while to reach this step, but I’m finally in a position where I can accept it all with grace: I am a person with bipolar disorder, but my condition is just one piece of who I am.
If you are struggling and need someone to talk to, you can get support by calling the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 or by texting HOME to 741-741, the Crisis Text Line. If you’re outside the United States, here is a list of international suicide helplines.
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How to Tell When It’s Time to Start an Antidepressant7 Therapy Goals That Are Super Specific and Actually AchievableThe Hidden Trauma of My Chronic Illness
Source : Self.com