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March 30 is World Bipolar Day, a time to raise awareness and break the stigma surrounding bipolar disorder. But for many of us living with mood disorders, the reality isn’t always as clear-cut as the textbooks suggest. Some doctors say I have bipolar disorder, others say it’s major depression. I have PTSD from Military Sexual Trauma, and anxiety is always somewhere in the mix. The uncertainty of a diagnosis is maddening—not because doctors are clueless, but because mental health doesn’t always fit neatly into its prescribed categories. It’s like trying to diagnose a shape-shifter—just when you think you’ve pinned it down, it turns to water and flows right through your hands.
The Limbo of Diagnosis
Mental illness doesn’t do neat and tidy. Some of my symptoms—like hearing voices—can occur in bipolar disorder, depression, PTSD and anxiety. My so-called hypomania? Maybe it’s just me shaking off the dead weight of depression and finally feeling like a functioning human again. Since I don’t fit into a single, clean-cut diagnosis, doctors tread carefully, avoiding meds that could tip me too far in either direction. Smart, sure. But it also means I don’t have the absolute best medication for whatever my condition truly is. Stability is the goal, but when your diagnosis is a moving target, good luck hitting the bullseye.
What Hypomania Looks Like in My Life
To the outside world, hypomania looks like me having a damn good time. I’m full of energy, ideas, and an unshakable confidence that everything I touch turns to gold. But get a little closer, and you’ll see the cracks. Hypomania is like a sugar rush—sweet, exhilarating, and absolutely reckless.
I get secretive, holding my plans close to my chest like they’re classified government documents. I feel like a live wire, buzzing with irritation but trying my best not to let it spill over onto the people around me. I eat more. I do more. I spend more. Oh boy, do I spend more.
One time, after just a few days of hypomania, I woke up to a $2,000 credit card bill—money blown on things I barely remembered buying, gifts I’d already given away, and experiences that felt essential at the time but meaningless in the morning. Another time, I agreed to move across the country to marry a man I had never met in person. My bank account held a laughable $144, and I had zero job prospects waiting for me. But in my hypomanic brain, that wasn’t a red flag—it was an adventure. (Silver lining: we actually did get married three years later, so that one worked out.)
I don’t see hypomania coming, and I definitely don’t recognize it while I’m in it. I’m just making decisions, one after the other, convinced I’m nailing it. It’s only after the dust settles that I realize I might’ve been playing a little fast and loose with my life.
Hearing Voices
I’ve written about my experience with auditory hallucinations, but the short version? Hearing voices isn’t some Hollywood horror flick situation, and it’s not exclusive to schizophrenia. It’s just my brain throwing out random sound bites like an out-of-control jukebox.
Once, I heard someone call my name from another room when I was completely alone. It was like a glitch in the Matrix—jarring, but not terrifying. I’ve learned not to panic. Some people get intrusive thoughts; I get intrusive voices. And honestly? Once you accept that your brain occasionally lies to you, the fear loses its grip.
Creativity, Depression, and Mania
People love the idea of the “tortured artist,” like bipolar disorder is some kind of superpower that fuels genius. Spoiler alert: it’s not. When I’m depressed, creativity is dead on arrival. I can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but exist under the crushing weight of my own mind. When I’m in a high, I’m too erratic to focus, bouncing between ideas like a kid in a candy store who can’t pick just one.
Right now, my meds are doing their job. My moods are stable, which means I actually get to be creative. But I know this won’t last forever. Medications stop working. Moods shift. Depression creeps back in, or a high slips past my radar. The trick isn’t avoiding the symptoms—it’s learning how to move through them.
The Unpredictability of Bipolar Disorder
People misunderstand bipolar disorder because they expect it to have a reason, a cause-and-effect cycle. But this illness doesn’t wait for a tragedy or a triumph to show up. It crashes the party uninvited, flips the table, and leaves you cleaning up the mess.
I’ve survived absolute chaos without leveling up to hypomania. I’ve had everything in my life going right, only to be swallowed whole by the abyss. It callously jumps in with depression at my son’s graduation. It spirals my brain into hallucinating when I go to the grocery store. Bipolar doesn’t care what the rest of my life is doing. Bipolar just is.
So please, if you ever feel the urge to tell someone with bipolar disorder to get over it because other people have it worse, let me stop you right there. That’s like telling someone to get over their cancer because someone else is dying faster. It doesn’t work that way. Mental illness isn’t a competition, and shame won’t cure a damn thing.
Self-Acceptance: I Am Not My Illness
Jung’s concept of the Self helps me separate who I am from what I experience. I have bipolar disorder (or depression, depending on which doctor you ask), but I am not bipolar disorder. I am not depression. These illnesses are like rogue planets orbiting me, affecting my gravity but never becoming me.
Self-acceptance doesn’t mean giving in or giving up. It means knowing that my brain is wired differently and working with that, not against it. It means staying vigilant, adjusting when necessary, and understanding that some days will be absolute shit. But at the end of the day, I’m still Kellie. I’m not my diagnosis. I’m the one fighting it.
A Call for More Nuanced Conversations
World Bipolar Day is a chance to discuss what this illness actually looks like—not just the sanitized textbook version portrayed in the media we watch. Bipolar disorder isn’t one-size-fits-all. It doesn’t follow a script.
We need more honesty. More voices. More perspectives. And most of all, we need to stop acting like suffering is some kind of contest. Pain is pain. Mental illness is real. And for those of us living with it, the best thing you can do? Listen. Believe us. And stop expecting it to make sense.
If you or someone you love is struggling with bipolar disorder, depression, or any mental illness, you are not alone. Support is out there. And no matter what your brain tells you, you matter.
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