The first pill felt like defeat.
It sat in my hand, harmless in appearance—small, round, sterile. But it carried the weight of every fear I had about what it meant to be “mentally ill.” Swallowing it felt like admitting something permanent. Like giving in. Like confirming that maybe I couldn’t fix this on my own.
I didn’t want to need it. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who had to take medication just to feel balanced. I had spent years convincing myself that if I just tried harder, prayed deeper, journaled longer, meditated better—I could control the storm inside me.
But nothing I tried had calmed it.
I was tired of running from myself. Tired of ricocheting between states of chaos and collapse. Tired of lying to everyone—including me—about what it was costing just to survive.
So I took the pill.
And then another.
And then the next.
I waited for clarity. For calm. For a miracle.
But what came first were side effects.
Nausea. Dullness. A strange fog that blurred the edges of my thoughts. It was like someone had dimmed the lights in my brain—and for a while, I missed the brightness, even if it had been burning me.
I mourned the version of myself that once felt so alive, even when she was too much.
I mourned the fire, not realizing it had been setting me ablaze.
Adjustments followed—doses, combinations, new medications, new routines. Each one brought hope, hesitation, and a quiet prayer that this time, maybe it would work.
And slowly—so slowly—something shifted.
The chaos softened. The sharp edges dulled. There was space between thought and reaction, between emotion and implosion. The meds didn’t make me happy. They didn’t erase the illness. But they gave me a pause—a breath I hadn’t known I needed.
Still, I carried shame like a secret.
I tucked pill bottles behind lotion and makeup.
I timed my doses in private.
I worried what people would think if they knew.
Because somewhere deep inside, I had absorbed the lie that needing medication made me weak. That “strong” people didn’t rely on chemicals. That healing had to be natural, spiritual, clean.
But bipolar disorder isn’t a bad attitude. It isn’t a phase. It isn’t something you outgrow or out-pray.
It is chemistry. And sometimes, chemistry needs correction.
Taking medication isn’t giving up.
It’s showing up.
It’s choosing to stay in this body, in this life, even when everything in you wants to disappear.
It’s courage. It’s survival. It’s wisdom.
My medicated soul is still creative. Still tender. Still fierce.
I haven’t lost myself—I’ve just found a version of me that can breathe.
And while healing is more than medication, for me, this was where it began:
With a pill.
With a choice.
With the radical act of believing I was worth saving.
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