This is How It Feels Living With Bipolar II Disorder

I was 28 years old when I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder.

Having been experiencing poor attention and motivation skills, I determined that I obviously had a case of undiagnosed ADHD. Therefore, I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist in the hopes of being prescribed a stimulant.

As we went through the appointment, she began to ask me questions about my daily moods and habits. That then morphed into questions about my long term moods and habits:

Did you feel depressed all the time? Not all the time, but I have some pretty low moments.

How do you feel during the times you are motivated? Like I can juggle a million projects, my mind is constantly four steps ahead of myself, and like my contributions to my employer make me indispensable.

Do you ever act impulsively? I mean, no more than the usual person does. I guess my spending can get out of hand sometimes and I have immediate regrets, but I'm not stealing cars or hooking up with strangers or anything.

Do you have a history of Bipolar in your family?

I paused. Hesitated. Then answered.

Yes.

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I was raised by a single mother. My father and I barely had any relationship at all. Often he even questioned if I was his. But that didn't matter. Because for a long time, life with my mom was really good.

When I turned nine it became less good.

One week in particular, my mom stayed in bed and called out of work everyday. She told me she was sick. After day 8 I asked her if she was feeling better.

That's when she told me she'd quit her job.

And so began an incredibly tumultuous few years for us. She had odd jobs here and there but never anything long term, or that paid enough for us to afford a place to live.

We hopped around a lot. Sometimes staying with friends or family. Other times staying at shelters or churches.

Every time we settled somewhere, it'd only take a few months (or weeks) for my mother to do something that put us back on the streets. There was no consistency to her reasoning. She'd either lose her job, start a heated fight with whoever we were staying with, or find a man that made her feel valued if only for a few months.

Between the ages of 9 and 11, I went to five different schools.

It was at that point - right in the middle of sixth grade - that I was taken in by my uncle and his wife, with the understanding that I would move back in with mom when she got her life back on track. That never happened.

Filled with anger and distrust, I couldn't wrap my head around why she'd done what she'd done. How she could choose her selfish desire of the week over her child.

My mother died five years ago and I am only now beginning to understand.

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Bipolar II is very different than what you think of when you hear Bipolar disorder. While there's no clear definition that's shorter than 500 words, the National Institute of Mental Health sums it up well:

Bipolar II Disorder is defined by a pattern of depressive episodes and hypomanic episodes, but not the full-blown manic episodes that are typical of Bipolar I Disorder. However it isn't a milder form of Bipolar I disorder, but rather a completely different diagnosis.

As you can see in the chart above, it's pretty much the same level of long bout depression. The main difference in the two types is the level of mania reached.

While in BP-I manic episodes can be destructive and life ruining, my mania is significantly more low key.

In fact, my favorite moments are my manic moments. It's the time I feel most "normal". Sort of like what I imagine nuerotypical, happy people feel like.

But alas, the other shoe will always drop.

Below is what it feels like for me when I go through the seemingly never-ending cycle.

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The Good: Hypomania

Photo by Jon Tyson on UnsplashMy most recent hypomanic episode started at the end of May and wrapped around the beginning of July.

At the time, I had decided that I would start seriously side hustling. I joined a few platforms and began writing, accomplishing the seemingly impossible feat of earning over $100 in my first month.

I wrote 31 articles in order to do so. And that was just on one of them.

I wrote five short stories on Vocal, started a niche blog with thirteen articles, joined Fiverr as a sensitivity reader to then read and edit over 350,000 words collectively, sold my niche blog, started a new niche blog, wrote three freelance articles (which are now published on legit websites so that's pretty cool) and flipped two domains.

All while working my day job.

Although never low on energy, my sleep was rare and limited only totaling about four or five hours a night. The rest of my hours were spent with my head down, figuring out how I was going to build my passive income empire.

When I wasn't face down in my computer, I was out all the time. With my partner or with friends. Just feeling motivated to go do things. My texting habits were strong, and I regularly checked in on my people.

I felt unstoppable and on top of the world. Like I was thriving in ambition and spirit. I didn't think I'd ever slow down again, believing that this new joyful energy was because I was finally working towards things I was passionate about, and doing so pretty successfully I might add. Then July came.

And so entered the other shoe.

The Bad: Mild Depression

It was a slow burnout. Instead of waking up and writing non-stop, I'd write an article a day. Then an article a week. More and more of my Fiverr orders were being delivered late. I had to have at least five hours notice before leaving the house for any activity.

It was at this point I realized that I hadn't been taking my mood stabilizers regularly. Which wasn't necessarily unusual.

Often times forgetful about them, I'd occasionally pop three or four a week. Far from the highly encouraged daily dosage.

Even now, I have a hard time forcing myself to take them every night. Although my psychiatrist emphasized that I won't, I'm afraid it will numb my highs as much as my lows. That it'll cost me those sweet, sweet moments of euphoria.

I'd pretty much talked myself into powering through the mild depression. Putting on a facade, just like everyone else who suffers with the disease. My mild depression isn't crippling so much as it is disheartening. I'd remind myself that millions of people out there are struggling in ways I could never imagine. If they could live with it daily, then so could I.

So I'd skip my pills and I'd wait. For weeks. For months. It didn't matter.

In my mind, it was worth it. Just for the guarantee that at some point I'd once again feel on top of the world.

But as I get older, I'm beginning to wonder if that's true.

Because with every cycle, my lows are becoming worse and worse.

To the point that it's turned quite ugly.

The Ugly: Severe Depression

Everyone experiences depression differently. If you know nothing else of the disease, you should know that.

Personally, my episodes have grown more frequent lately. More debilitating. Whereas before it took me fifteen minutes to motivate myself out of bed, it can now take hours if I do so at all.

My irritability has grown higher and my patience has shortened.

There's a constant tightness in my chest. Not physically painful. More like when you feel that lump of emotion in your throat right before a cry. But deeper. Like it's in my soul.

When these moments hit, I want to be alone. So alone. Yet it's in these moments that I feel true loneliness.

Darkness is my best friend. I know sunshine would help, but I can't bring myself to go to it when it feels undeserved.

I shut out everyone in my life. Never wanting them to see my vulnerability or know how much a stupid fuck up of the chemicals in my brain can change everything about me in an instant.

Everything makes me feel trapped.

Relationships. Friendships. Myself.

I'm grateful for the fact that I don't believe I could never take my own life. But I'm beginning to have more understanding for those who do.

Because sometimes it's easy to feel like there's nothing to live for. Like you're just too tired to keep doing this. Whatever this may be.

For my mom, it was her job. She was 32 when she succumbed to that feeling.

I'm 30 now.

That terrifies me.

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After one particularly rough day - in which I sobbed in my closet for 20 minutes before slapping some concealer on and heading out with friends - I made a commitment to myself to stop chasing my highs.

Like most mental health conditions, Bipolar disorder worsens as you get older. Especially when untreated.

There is such a privilege in having access to affordable medication that for me not to appreciate that is a huge problem in itself.

Another important factor though, is that I'd like to feel happiness more often than not. Even if that means giving up the ecstasy-like feeling that my hypomania can bring.

I owe it to everyone in my life. I owe it to my mother.

And I owe it to myself.